


Tear Down Your Heroes

by ionthesparrow



Series: Hockey at the End of the World [5]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Los Angeles Kings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:58:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 244,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The education of Tyler Toffoli, first President of the Republic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the kids in america

**Author's Note:**

> Ha, remember when I said I was done with this universe? Yeah, turns out no.
> 
> So, yes, this is a WIP. I apologize to those of you who will be disappointed by this. I decided to break this up because it is going to be very long, and ultimately I thought the quality of the work would be better if I work on it in chunks. I thought about holding onto it and releasing it once it’s finished, but that requires sitting on basically-finished work, which I am absolutely terrible at, and this way you can read it if you want, and not read it if you don’t want. Plus, I like to think this story stands on its own as entertaining. There will be four chapters, each should clock in around 30K. Chapter 2 is written, and I’m targeting Winter 2014 as a release date, with chapters 3 & 4 to come in spring and summer 2015, respectively. (oh god, it looks intimidating when I write that out. Let’s not think about it). 
> 
> As far as fitting into the End of the World series, this story picks up directly after [Before the Fall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/528348) ends, runs concurrently with [The Rebel League](http://archiveofourown.org/works/786671), and will eventually surpass that and continue beyond. 
> 
> Warnings: Oh, man. You guys know what you’re getting into by this point, yeah? But in case you don’t, this story contains violence, homophobic slurs, death, darkness, destruction, mayhem, abuse, and violence against vulnerable parties. 
> 
> [a side note: if you _are_ somehow coming to this story without reading the other parts of the series, I’d love if you left a comment telling me whether it’s at all comprehensible. I’m super curious to know].
> 
> Additional much-less-serious warnings: I messed with timelines (conflating a great deal of events which occurred in the 2012-2014 stretch) and with New England geography. Apologies to those who this will deeply offend. 
> 
> Thank Yous: [puckling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/puckling/pseuds/puckling) is still one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, I appreciate her looking this over for me, and [empathapathique](http://archiveofourown.org/users/empathapathique/pseuds/empathapathique) is mean in all the right ways. Once again, she put her blood, sweat and tears into this, and I am eternally grateful. 
> 
> Finally, this story exists because [pressdbtwnpages](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pressdbtwnpages/pseuds/pressdbtwnpages) asked for it[.](http://i1286.photobucket.com/albums/a613/ionthesparrow/kelseyconvo01_zpsd4b3c9be.jpg) Bon voyage, my friend, and good luck following your heart.
> 
> (additional hockey notes at the end)

* * *

 

It’s important not to be fooled. Even when it looks like Dean isn’t watching, he is. 

The whistle goes. Wealer and Hicks take off: backwards to the blue line, pivot and sprint for the far red. Around the cones. Back up to center ice. 

Tyler stands third in line; his back rests against the Plexiglas, and from where he’s standing, he can see the coaches and the drill, but more importantly, he can see Dean Lombardi. Dean’s just across the rink, just on the other side of the glass. He looks distracted; Blake is talking to him and Dean nods, glances down every so often at the sheet of paper in his hands, or says something to Blake, or to the guy on his other side. The new assistant coach, the one Tyler doesn’t know very well yet. 

But Dean’s paying attention. Tyler learned that the hard way. After one of Tyler’s first practices, Dean had frowned at him, had said, “I don’t want to see you daydreaming, Tyler. Pay attention, even when you’re not up. Watch the drills. Mental reps are just as important as real ones. And watch these guys, they’re pros. You have a lot to learn from them.” 

But that lecture, of course, had been delivered last year, when Tyler was still new. He has an entire pro season under his belt now. And an entire summer of training. 

The whistle goes again. Tyler is up next. He looks across the rink at Vey. Vey’s shuffling his skates back and forth against the ice, he looks over at Tyler and makes a face. _I’m gonna smoke you_ , he mouths. 

Tyler rolls his eyes. 

Ahead of them, Neils catches an edge and almost eats it going around the cone. The guys give him some appreciative stick taps when he makes it back into line. 

Tyler glances over at Coach Morris to see where his attention is, to see if he’s watching Neils too, or if he’s waiting to catch Tyler and Vey off guard. Coach Morris isn’t watching Neils at all, so Tyler crouches, braces his skate against the ice. 

The whistle goes. 

Tyler edges Vey by a hair. 

Vey glides to a stop at the back of the line and shakes his head. “You got lucky, Toffoli!” he calls. Sharp, like he didn’t expect to lose, even if it was just a drill. 

“Like hell I did,” Tyler yells back, trying to sound like he expected to win, like it was no effort at all and like he’s not breathless, because Tyler worked hard to get faster this summer. He earned that win. And because the ice is the one place you’re supposed to yell, and it was like Wayne once told him: he had better learn to give it, because he was sure as hell gonna get it if he wanted to play hockey. 

Vey just shakes his head. 

Tyler looks over to where Dean was standing, to check if he saw. But Dean’s gone. 

 

 

Tyler can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Dean since he got to Manch. The night Tyler got here, of course. And again when the NHL season broke for the winter holiday. (The AHL season had rolled on unperturbed. Apparently scrubs and prospects don’t need breaks). And on clean-out day, for his wrap-up interview. 

“How do you think your season went?” Dean had asked, in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. As if that were a perfectly reasonable question. 

But what exactly was Tyler supposed to say to that? 

_Considering everything in my entire life was turned upside-down in the last nine months, I’d say those twenty-eight goals were pretty darn swell?_ Probably not the right answer. 

But now the bite in the air is getting sharper again; the days are growing shorter. Now the summer skeleton staff has been fleshed out by the return of the coaches, and practices are getting serious, and even the guys whose families live in-Province and had permission to spend the summer with them are back. 

And now Dean is back. 

Tyler twists his fingers into the chain of his PerT tags, wrapping and unwrapping. The metal bites into his skin. 

When he’s here, Dean uses an office on the second floor. He’s in there now, Tyler knows, because one – the lights are still burning, and two – Coach Morris went in there about half an hour ago and he’s not out yet. Tyler shifts. He feels conspicuous standing in the hallway, even if there’s no one around to see him loitering. He tugs his cap down further; his hair is still damp from the post-practice shower. He shivers. 

He stares hard, but the door stays closed. Tyler looks out the window instead. The light’s fading fast. Tyler can still make out the parking lot, but the trees beyond are just black outlines, fiery reds and oranges of their leaves lost in the twilight gloom. 

Tyler picks at the cracked skin over his knuckle and watches the last of the light fade behind the trees. Despite being an outpost of the Black, technically this whole area is part of the Extended Governance District of the Yellow, courtesy of the Northeast Accords of 1996. Or was is ‘97? 

When Tyler was younger, he didn’t go to school. But in his head, he can hear Ms. Seiling, who had tutored him – along with four other kids, all the children of his parents’ friends – yelling at him for not paying attention to his lessons. But all Ms. Seiling ever did was repeat back what he’d read in the book the night before. And despite the fact that the book had great, gaping holes in it, she never answered his questions. Like: how did one get to be on the Council that decided the Accords? And, who was in charge of this place before the Accords came about? And, really, how did the people who lived there feel about being told they now lived in a place called something else? 

Tyler thinks that if someone suddenly made the Blue  & White twice as big as it used to be, or half the size, that people would probably have something to say about that. 

Tyler spent most of his history lessons frustrated by the absolute lack of logical progression, although whether this deficit was due to Ms. Seiling’s teaching or the capricious nature of history itself, Tyler didn’t know. Tyler sometimes brought these questions to his dad, who was miles better about answering those sorts of things. In that particular case, his dad had paused before replying. Had said, “The Union’s redistricting policies solved a great deal of instability in the region. The Union brought in stronger government oversight, and that dramatically improved the majority of people’s lives.” 

Tyler asked, “The majority?” 

His father had sighed, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Well, there are always holdouts.” 

At the time, all of that had seemed like ancient and irrelevant history. Tyler had daydreamed through Ms. Seiling’s redundant and superficial lectures, instead watching the snow falling on the landscaped sweep of the lawn, thinking mostly, of course, about hockey. And even though the children of people like his father didn’t end up playing pro hockey, he dreamed himself into NHL games, dreamed of perfect passes and scoring goals, blowing past defenders, throwing one behind the goalie in a neon-lit blur of lights and screaming goal horns and cheering crowds. 

In his daydreams Tyler had been wearing a Teal sweater – because that was Dean’s team at the time. When Dean changed organizations, the color of the sweater in his daydreams had changed as well, but the dream itself remained largely the same, intact even though Tyler knew in the back of his mind that people like him didn’t play pro hockey, no matter how good he got. 

Yet here he is. Against all odds and in defiance of all reasonable predictions, Tyler is in the Yellow, playing hockey. And thanks to faded memories of those lesson books, Tyler knows the bones of his history. He knows that before the Accords, in the Fractured Era, this place used to be called New Hampshire. 

Once, Hicks had gotten lost on one of Manch’s cross-country conditioning runs, and while he was out there wandering around in circles like an idiot, he’d found an old metal sign, blue and yellow paint faded and peeling away, that read, _Welcome to New Hampshire: the Granite State!_

The guys had gotten a kick out of it. The older guys on the team had recognized the name, and they made a game of trying to come up with ‘New Hampshire facts’ – Soupy had recalled that the face on the sign was called the Old Man in the Mountain, and Cliche had coughed up, _Live free or die_. 

Of the rookies, Tyler alone recognized the name New Hampshire, knew what it meant, and knew where it had gone. He explained that New Hampshire had been merged with Massachusetts, Connecticut, and significant portions of Vermont to form the Extended Governance District of the Yellow, in the late nineties (glossing over his uncertainty about the date), and placed under the supervision of the Honorable Charles Jacobs. 

This had been met with blank stares. “‘ _Significant portions of Vermont_ ’,” Soupy parroted back at him. “Jesus, it’s like listening to a fucking textbook.” 

Tyler’s answer had, in fact, been lifted almost verbatim from his old and oft-neglected history book, and so Tyler fell quiet. 

It was Cliche who broke the silence, shaking his head and fixing Tyler with a skeptical look. “And why exactly do you think they put the _Honorable_ Charles Jacobs in charge?" 

Tyler hesitated. Cliche had spoken the honorific with this spitting tone of great disdain, one that made Tyler uncertain whether he was being sarcastic, whether he really wanted Tyler to answer or not. “Jacobs was the highest ranked Morality Officer at the time,” Tyler said carefully. “He ran successful businesses in the region. The Council believed he would administrate effectively and justly.” 

“Right.” Cliche's voice was flat. “And I’m sure it had nothing to do with the family name.” 

The team hung the sign up in the dorms. They had it over the door for good luck, until Coach Morris made them take it down. They had a real horseshoe up there too, also for luck, except guys kept nicking it to go play horseshoes with, and finally someone lost it in the snow. 

Wealer complained to Cliche, but Cliche said they’d just have to wait ‘til spring. Cliche also said if they had enough time to worry about horseshoes then they probably weren’t spending enough time in the gym. 

Then Wealer said, “We _just_ came from the gym.” 

Wealer and Tyler had the same problem their rookie year, which was that neither one of them knew when to shut up. Although in Wealer’s case, it was probably because he was from a far-flung town in the Blue & Green, tiny enough that the only red lights were the ones behind the nets, and he was too dumb to know any better. 

Tyler, in contrast, had opined earlier that day that the beds here in Manchester compared unfavorably to home. That the bathrooms were disgusting. That the food was inferior to home, including why the pancakes that Bishy had made that morning and called ‘crepes’ were not, in fact, crepes. And that even the snow itself, here in Manchester, was inferior to what fell on the Blue & White. 

So in hindsight, Tyler can admit, maybe he was pretty dumb, too. 

Cliche had just looked at both of them and then said, “Well, seeing as how you’re both so _goddamn_ efficient with your free time, why don’t you scrub out the showers, since they’re so fucking disgusting?” 

And that was the first in a long series of lessons on why Tyler should keep his goddamn mouth shut, and not piss off his Captain. 

The doorknob rattles and Tyler startles, turns. Coach Morris emerges. He pauses on the threshold, looking at Tyler. He seems irritated, but unsurprised to see him. Tyler ducks his head. 

Dean’s just a step behind Coach, still finishing their conversation. “We can talk depth charts in the morning. I want Freddy to sit in on that conversation.” 

“Yeah,” Coach Morris says. He sounds distracted; he’s still looking at Tyler. 

Dean looks up then. 

Dean’s got dark circles under his eyes, noticeable even in the uneven light of the hallway. Which, Tyler guesses, makes sense, given that this time of year Dean’s making endless cross-country trips, trying to keep track of Manchester and the Black both. 

Tyler bites his lip. “Do you have a minute?” 

Dean turns back to Coach. “We good?” And when Coach nods, Dean pats him on the shoulder, and he says, “Yeah, Tyler. I have minute. Come on in.” 

Dean motions for him to sit, and takes a seat himself, hands neatly folded, gray-eyed gaze zeroed in on Tyler. 

Tyler waits to see if Dean’s going to say anything, but he doesn’t. Tyler swallows. “You’ve barely said anything to me since you got here.” 

Dean looks faintly amused. “I did just get here, Tyler. And I seem to remember a conversation yesterday – about gap control?” 

“That’s different,” Tyler says. “That’s hockey. I want to know if – if anything – ” 

“You have a lot you need to focus on in the here and now, Tyler.” Tyler opens his mouth to argue, but Dean presses on, smooth, “But, I can tell you put a lot of work in this summer. You look good. Strong on the puck.” He smiles. 

Tyler frowns. He’s seen Dean talk to Generals and CEOs and redirect whole conversations without anyone ever realizing – and do it smiling the whole time. His dad once said Dean could talk angels into falling and devils into setting themselves on fire. 

Tyler’s dad and Dean used to lounge in the wingbacks in Tyler’s dad’s office and smoke cigars and talk into the small hours of the morning. Some of those evenings Tyler had been allowed to stay up and remain at their feet in order to provide fresh ears to old stories. 

“Dean once talked our Constitutional Law professor into admitting he was wrong, and Tyler, if you’d ever met that blowhard, you’d know what a feat that was,” his dad said, a smile on his face. In response, Dean had shaken his head, but there was a grin at the corner of his mouth that said the story was true. 

And if there’s one thing Tyler learned from those evenings, it’s that you’re never going to trick Dean Lombardi into telling you something he doesn’t want to say. Tyler sighs. “What about – am I going to get called up this year?” 

Dean rocks back in his chair, one hand tapping against his mouth. He looks at Tyler for what feels like a long, long time. “Camp hasn’t even officially started, Tyler. Don’t you think it’s a bit early for me to have a set roster?” 

“But – ” 

“I can’t predict the future.” 

Tyler fiddles with his tags and studies the surface of Dean’s desk, hidden under stacks of papers. “Last year you said I was good enough. You said I could play in the NHL, and I just want to know if – if I have a real shot, or – ” When he checks, Dean’s face is perfectly flat, no reaction. Tyler presses on. “Or if I’m not going to get called up for… other reasons.” 

At this, Dean frowns. Those clear gray eyes still steady on Tyler’s face. “Tyler, last season I told you that you had the skill to play in the NHL.” 

He had. That had been good to hear, that at least he was exceling on the ice, when he was utterly miserable everywhere else. But apparently that doesn’t mean good enough to be invited to the Black’s training camp this year. Dean’s waiting like he wants Tyler to say something, so Tyler nods. “Yeah. Okay.” 

“There’s more to being an NHL player than skill.” Dean has transitioned seamlessly into lecture mode, voice firm, gaze steady. “It requires a physical maturity, and a mental maturity as well. I expect every player on the Black to be a dedicated professional. I expect every player on the Black to be a leader. Do you understand?” 

The cracked skin on his knuckle stings. Tyler picks at it some more. “Yes, sir.” 

“That’s what I want you to work on this year. You have tremendous skill, but you’re not a rookie on this team anymore. I want you to step up. I want you to show you can be a leader.” 

“Yes, sir.” There’s a stain on the carpet, right next to Tyler’s shoe. 

“This season’s rookies are going to arrive this week. They’re going to be brand new. They’ve never played professionally before, most of them have probably never been out of their home Province before, and it is now partly _your_ job to make sure they become the skilled contributors you and I both know they can be, right Tyler?” 

“Yes, sir.” Dean stays quiet, so Tyler looks up. Dean looks back at him, intent and searching, clearly waiting, and Tyler has to fight not to shift in his chair, to look away. Tyler finally shrugs. “But – if I do that, if I can… be mature, and be a leader, and do all of that, is there – a chance?” 

Dean smiles, one of his sad ones, one of his genuine ones. “You know I promised your father I’d you keep you safe.” 

Tyler swallows, throat gone suddenly tight. “Yes.” 

Dean sighs and glances up at the clock. “You’d better get going, Tyler. You’re going to miss dinner.” 

 

 

This year’s rookie class is set to arrive on a charter van. Which, Tyler assumes, is normal. 

They will not arrive in the dead of night, a week late to camp, and left like a babe in the rushes, in a flurry of panic and tears, followed by the rapidly sweeping retreat of headlights. Which, Tyler has learned, is _not_ normal. 

But even given the normalcy of their arrival, it’s probably still an anxious day. New team. New people. New job. New town – if you can call it a town, given that their training compound is tucked deep into the woods. And Cliche might wear the ‘C’, and Veysey might have the ‘A’, but Tyler’s a sophomore now, which apparently means that – along with Wealer and Forbs and KG – it’s his job to show the rookies that the transition from raw, hapless recruit to polished professional hockey player is, if not easy, then at least possible. They will be confidants, Tyler thinks. They will be guiding lights. They will be role models – 

Wealer belches, long and low. “Stop pacing. You’re making me nervous.” 

Tyler shoots a glare at him. 

“They’ll get here when they get here.” Wealer is sprawled on his bunk, which is next to Tyler’s, because Wealer’s level of tolerance for Tyler is marginally higher than everyone else’s. He extends a hand towards Tyler in a broad, sweeping gesture. “It’s super simple. You go the Draft. You get Drafted – ” He pauses here to mime celebration. “You put on the jersey, shake hands and get on a bus.” He shrugs. “Sleep. Then you’re here. The end.” He frowns at Tyler, thoughtful. “Just because you never went through it doesn’t make it, like, a big mysterious deal or something.” 

Everyone knows Tyler wasn’t Drafted. That first night, Dean had kept him in his office until Tyler stopped crying, but then he’d handed him off to a freshly roused and bewildered Cliche, who took Tyler to the dorms for what was the first of many sleepless nights. That morning, when the team had woken up to find this sudden, new arrival dropped in their midst, they peppered him with questions. 

“This is Tyler Toffoli,” Cliche had announced, voice navigating the name like it was the Latin for some strange, new species. And after a very long pause. “Our new rookie.” 

“Well, fuck me.” One of them, who Tyler later learned was Campbell – better known as Soupy – had walked up to him, and bent down the couple required inches to stare directly into his face. After a moment of silent regard, he gave a sharp nod towards the door. “Rookies have breakfast chore duty. You’re late.” 

This had seemed rude, and not a little uncalled for. Tyler drew himself up and frowned, putting some ice in his tone. “Well it’s hardly my fault, if no one’s told me where to be.” 

Soupy had raised an eyebrow, and behind him one of the onlookers said, “Whoo, boy. This is gonna be fun.” 

Tyler’s first attempt at scrubbing breakfast dishes had gone just about as well as his first attempt at sweeping out the dorms or his first attempt at shoveling snow or his first attempt at unclogging the dorm’s gutters, which is to say, not well. Which was humiliating in and of itself – to not be good at these simple things that it seemed everyone else was somehow born knowing how to do. “I’m here to play hockey, not clean things,” Tyler snapped later in the week, when Joner had teased him about a particularly poor attempt at laundry. And that, Tyler recognizes now, probably hadn’t been a good idea, either. 

Wealer was the one who got stuck in charge of teaching Tyler how not to be useless. “Eh, at least you’re another pair of hands,” Wealer’d said. “Even if you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.” 

Tyler can see headlights coming up through the trees. “Shut up, Wealer,” he grumbles. “They’re here.” From the window he watches Cliche and Coach Morris stride out to meet the van. He watches six figures get out. Coach Morris shakes their hands, and then Cliche walks them up the path to the dorms. 

“Alright, guys, listen up,” Cliche says when he comes in at the head of the pack. 

There is a general putting-down-of-magazines-and-cards and sitting-up as the team pays attention. “This year’s crop is here. This is Pearson, Miller, LaDue and Ebert.” The first four stand clustered together, but just behind them are two more. “And these are – ” Cliche breaks off. “Christ, where’s Slava when you need him?” he mutters. “This is… Tom and Nicky.” The names are offered up like some kind of compromise. The last rookie offers a small, shy smile. All of them look hesitant, uncertain. 

“Sweet digs.” Well, except for that one. “Do we just grab a bunk, or what?” The first introduced – Pearson – looks back at Cliche, bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Cliche says. “Go for it.” 

Pearson strides into the room and throws his duffle down on the first empty bunk he comes to, just across the aisle from Tyler. Pearson looks around, and he’s already pulling his jacket off, throwing it to the foot of his bunk. “This is great. You guys have power twenty-four hours, or what?” 

_Great_ is not exactly how Tyler had felt about the place when he’d arrived. The dorms held twenty-odd bunks crammed into a big, drafty space, because only Cliche got his own room, and only then because he was the Captain – none of that seemed _great_. Definitely not when it was twenty-one other guys talking and yelling and snoring when Tyler was trying to sleep. “Hey,” Bishop had said, when Tyler complained, “count yourself lucky. One place I played at, they didn’t even bother to heat.” 

Tyler’s still skeptical of Bishop’s claims, but judging by the way Pearson is looking around like he’d just landed in a five star hotel, maybe they were true. 

 

 

The first morning bell goes off at 6:30. Tyler rolls out of bed and stumbles through washing his face and hands. He pulls on a sweatshirt and pants and joins Wealer and KG in shaking the rookies awake. The sooner they train the rookies to do the breakfast shift, the sooner the sophomores are off the breakfast shift. Most of the rookies blink at him, bleary, still half-asleep. 

Pearson is sitting on the edge of his bunk, dressed and waiting. 

They walk the rookies through how to set up the coffee machine. How to make breakfast: how to make the eggs, when there are eggs. How to cook the bacon, when there’s bacon. 

“You have to take advantage of all the protein they give you,” Tyler informs Pearson, because most of these guys are totally uneducated, and don’t know the first thing about nutrition. “Even if it’s first thing in the morning, and you don’t feel like eating much.” 

Pearson regards him with a flat look. “Right.” 

Tyler nods. “And days we have eggs, anything that’s leftover can be saved, because we have breakfast casserole the next day.” And good god, had Tyler caught hell the first time he’d thrown out the leftovers. He still doesn’t like breakfast casserole much, the idea that it’s food from _yesterday_ , saved and repurposed seems suspect. 

But Pearson doesn’t seem surprised by this at all. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” Tyler nods. “Also – ” 

“Hey, so I can cook,” Pearson interrupts. “I cooked sometimes at – where I was before.” 

Everything in Tyler’s experience tells him that most of what rookies think they know, they don’t. He continues where he left off, “Also, it’s important to clean the pans right after, or soak them, because once everything dries on there it gets a lot harder to clean.” 

Pearson narrows his eyes. “Right,” he says, sounding irritated. “Sure.” 

The rookies get their first taste of the team’s morning ritual when the rest of the guys troop into the dining hall around nine. The usual routine is this: mainline coffee, eat whatever’s on offer, and scan every inch of the day’s papers for news of the Black. They have a TV in the dining hall too, and every morning that gets tuned to the morning sports news program, which they watch in intense, focused quiet. God help the person who tries to talk over the announcer, or drops a tray, or causes some other clatter. 

During commercial breaks, or while scanning the paper, Soupy, or Cliche, or one of the other vets will mutter comments like, “Such incredible bullshit” or “Like hell it happened like that.” And it’s not like Tyler doesn’t know the Union news outlets editorialize. His dad said that not everyone was educated enough to really understand the nuance of daily news, and so it was important to tell a consistent narrative, to really make sure people got what was important. But how and why exactly Soupy and the others are so convinced that some particular bits of news are false, Tyler doesn’t know. And a lot of those muttered conversations shut down fast when they notice Tyler’s listening. 

Even given their skepticism, they still hang on every word. They all do. The vast majority of news is about the Yellow, because that’s where they are, but they also get some information about the other east coast teams. News from people’s hometowns is good, but news about the Black is a precious, rare commodity. Each revelatory tidbit is treasured. 

But really, most of the news about what’s happening in the big club doesn’t come from the TV or the papers. The real news comes from guys who go up and down. And this morning it’s Muzzin, who flew in on the red-eye, and strolls in mid-breakfast. 

Muzz, King, Nolan, Slava, Lokti, and Joner all got to go to the Black’s camp this year. Muzz is the first one back. A lot of the guys are really excited to see Muzzin. And he’s excited to see them. He hugs Cliche and Hicks, hearty and enthusiastic, even if he does look exhausted. 

The guys press in close around him. “Alright, Muzz,” Soupy says. “Spill.” 

Muzz runs a hand across his head – he’s buzzed his hair short – and shrugs. “Looks like Slava’s going to stick.” His voice has that particular weary edge, the one that says he’s happy for Slava and bitter about being sent down, all in the same breath. “Mr. Lombardi told me I’m the next lefty defenseman in line, though.” Cliche nods, and gives Muzz another pat on the back. 

“I think King and Lokti going to stay up, too,” Muzz adds. “And Nolly’s gonna get some time, although it looks like he’ll be up and down. Joner they’re just using as a camp goalie, so he’ll be back before too long. He’s looking really good, though.” Muzz nods to himself. 

“And,” Vey presses. “What else?” 

Muzz smiles, a little bit sly. He knows he’s got the goods, and the longer he draws this out, the longer everyone will hang on his every word. 

“Jacob Francis Muzzin, I swear to god – ” Hicks makes a gesture like he’s about to punch Muzz in the face. But Hicks is Muzz’ D-partner, so that sort of thing is normal. 

Muzz laughs and ducks out of the way. “Okay, okay. Schenn’s gone. Smythe’s gone. Simmonds, too.” 

That last name hits Tyler hard, a beat of shock and surprise. Even though it’s hockey, and anything can happen. 

“Wow.” Hicks shakes his head. “Serious?” 

“Yep.” Muzz grins. “They picked up Mike Richards.” He says it with a little flourish, and his effort is rewarded by the big-eyed looks he gets in response. 

“Mike Richards is playing for the Black?” Vey asks that. He sounds sour, but then, Vey’s a center, so that’s no good for him. 

“Yep,” Muzzin says again, looking pleased with himself. 

“Who’s he playing with?” Soupy asks. 

Muzz shrugs. “Right now? Everybody. Coach Murray doesn’t really have set lines yet.” 

Tyler tries to picture Mike Richards in a Black uniform. He’s seen Richards play – his dad took him to Blue & White games sometimes, and he looked forward to the ones when the Orange was in town, because they were exciting, and there was nearly always a fight. He remembers pressing his hands to glass, and the way the players on the other side had seemed enormous. He remembers Mike Richards, in particular, pin-balling around the ice, hitting everything in sight, a permanent scowl on his face. Their seats had been close enough to hear him spit insults at the Blue & White bench. Mike Richards not in Orange is hard to imagine. 

Cliche leans back in his chair and looks past the crowd at the new assistant coach – Meyer, who’s seated just a little ways off. Meyer’s got the paper open in front of him, but it’s pretty clear he’s been listening. “Hey – you played with Richards, right?” 

Tyler blinks. He knows Coach Meyer is only a year or so removed from playing himself, but he hadn’t really thought about the implications of that. 

Coach Meyer looks up and nods. “Yeah. That was a long time ago, though. Back when he was a rookie on the Phantoms.” 

“So what was he like?” 

Meyer thinks for a minute. “Mouthy. Hard worker. And he hit anything that moved.” He smiles. “I think he’ll fit in well on the Black, if he’s still the same player.” 

Tyler thinks about saying, “Yes. He is still the same player. Or at least he was, as of two seasons ago.” But that would mean explaining how he’d seen Mike Richards play in person. Which would mean explaining his father’s season tickets, which would mean another round of blank stares and eye-rolling from the rest of the team, just in case Tyler needed someone to drive the point home that he is Not Like Them. 

Tyler keeps his mouth shut about Richards, and the guys sort of sink into a communal silence around him. Tyler knows they’re thinking about where the rest of the players no longer on the Black may have gone – or the remaining roster spots, and how the odds of getting called up have changed. Now that the Black has some idea of what their roster is going to look like, Manchester will have a better idea about theirs as well. 

Tyler’s throat goes dry thinking about it. Things are going to get serious, and who’s sticking around will get a lot more clear. But Tyler’s still hung up on the subtractions, on one name in particular. He looks at Muzz again, who has his eyes down on the table. “Do you know where Simmonds went?” 

Muzz looks up, and it takes him a second to find Tyler at the edge of the crowd. He shakes his head. “No. But don’t worry, Toffoli. He’ll turn up.” 

 

 

Tyler and the children he was tutored with all those years ago played a disorganized, relatively sedate brand of backyard hockey on the pond behind Tyler’s house. But none of them really liked hockey, not like Tyler liked hockey. And Tyler was better at it – miles better at it than Cynthia, and Cynthia was better than Teddy, and Jack and Lauren wouldn’t play at all, and besides, five wasn’t enough to have a proper game anyway. So right around the time he was ten, Tyler talked his dad into letting him skate with the kids down at the public rink. 

Tyler’s father had built the public rink – along with the community center and the park that went with it – but all of that was immaterial. The only thing that mattered was that there were lots of kids down at the public rink, and lots of them wanted to play hockey, and some of them were even really good. 

The best of them, though – that was indisputably Wayne. 

Wayne was taller than everyone and faster than everyone. That alone would have made him stand out, even if he hadn’t had black skin to mark him doubly unique. He could hit, and he could shoot, and by the time Tyler started showing up to the rink, he’d fought everyone there was to fight. Tyler assumed he won every bout, and even after Wayne told him that wasn’t exactly true, the aura of invincibility had stuck. 

Tyler can still remember his first time down at the rink, how the kids had gathered round, and he’d been quizzed on his name, and what position he played, and if he was any good. And then one of the kids had snatched his stick out of his hands. “Where’d you get the twig?” 

Tyler’s stick was composite. And that made it different, because everyone else’s was wood. The answers Tyler gave – _Tyler Toffoli. Right wing. Maybe. For Christmas_ – were only half listened to, because the boy had turned away, and it was abruptly clear he intended to keep the stick. 

Wayne, who hadn’t been Wayne then, but rather just the tall kid looming near center ice, had called out, “Smitty, give it back.” 

Smitty frowned and threw a look back over his shoulder at Tyler. “Why?” 

“Just do it,” Wayne said. He pointed the butt end of his own stick at Tyler. “Winger, right? You rotate in when I come off.” And then he rolled his eyes, slammed his stick against the ice. “Are we gonna play, or what?” 

Wayne played fast. Wayne played serious. And Tyler spent that first game just trying to watch everything Wayne did, and then see if he could do it too. 

After the game, after everyone had cleared out, Wayne had dropped down to the ice and stretched – and then he started skating sprints. 

Tyler watched him. Red line, blue line. Red line, centerline. Red line, far blue. The next time Wayne pulled up, Tyler ventured out, cautious. “Can I stay too?” 

Wayne narrowed his eyes, studying Tyler in silence for one, long moment. Then he nodded up ice. “Far red’s next.” 

Wayne was four years older than Tyler, but when he stayed after games, he didn’t mind if Tyler stuck around and asked questions, and he’d show Tyler a move two times, or three times, or however many times it took for Tyler to get it. Wayne taught him to look one way and shoot the other, how to bring the puck in close to his skates, keep his stick nearly vertical, and stick handle past just about anyone he liked. And since Tyler was the only kid at the rink without Tags, and this garnered him a significant amount of shit, Wayne taught him how to hit and be hit, rolling his eyes and saying, “If you get killed out there, _Toffoli,_ none of us are gonna get to play.” 

Not that he thought Tyler should be entirely sheltered. If Tyler got laid out after mouthing off, Wayne would just laugh and say, “Shoulda seen that one coming, Ty.” 

Wayne got it. Wayne got what it meant that Tyler woke up every morning, and went to sleep every evening dreaming of what he could do on the ice. What it meant to need to be the best. And where the other kids gave him shit for his lack of Tags, for how he talked, or who his father was, all Wayne seemed to care about was how hard he was willing to skate. 

Sometimes, after a particularly nice goal, he’d give Tyler a half-grin and say, “Not bad.” 

Tyler lived for that. “Thanks,” he said, red-faced under the praise. “And thanks for – for working with me.” 

Wayne shrugged. “More practice is good for me,” he said. “I need it to make a junior team.” 

Tyler thought any of the twenty junior teams would be lucky to have Wayne. But when he’d said that, Wayne had stopped skating. He laughed a little, but the way you do when something isn’t really funny. “Trust me,” he said. “I’m gonna have to work for it.” 

Tyler had told his dad too, Tyler spent a lot of time telling his dad, telling Dean, telling anyone that would listen, “He’s good – he’s really, really good. You should have him on your team.” 

His dad had looked back at Tyler, very serious. “Wayne Simmonds has to make his own way in the world, Tyler. We all do.” 

And Dean – Dean who _had_ drafted him, who _had_ put Wayne on his team, had never let Tyler know one way or the other whether his advocacy had made an impact. In the face of that particular question, Dean had just smiled and said, “We always just take the player that’s the best fit.” 

 

 

Dean also said, “Be a leader,” so Tyler watches the rookies. On the ice, there’s plenty to correct: they have no positional discipline, their edgework is sloppy, and looking at them you’d think they had no formal skating instruction at all. LaDue and Ebert are the worst. Miller and the Russians are rough, but have their moments. Pearson is the best. 

Pearson was as raw as the others on day one, but he listens with quiet attention to everything the coaches say, gives a sharp nod, and then the next time is better. He’s gotten a lot better, quickly, but Pearson’s far from perfect, and far from what Tyler considers game-ready, even for the AHL. So where the coaches leave off, Tyler picks up. “You’re not digging your toes in enough,” Tyler says, as Pearson pulls up from his last set of sprints. “Get lower, your weight’s not forward off the start. Your skate should be closer to a forty-five degree angle. You’ll get more out of your first three strides that way. You also – ” 

“Can you – ” Pearson is still breathing hard. He straightens and pulls his helmet off to wipe sweat out of his eyes. “Can you just give me a minute?” 

“Eh, you know you don’t actually have to listen to Toffoli,” Kozun calls, ignoring Tyler’s glare. “He just _thinks_ he knows everything.” 

Pearson looks vaguely overwhelmed. He doesn’t answer, but he gives Kozun a weak smile. 

Off the ice, none of the rookies are as helpless as Tyler was when he first got here, but he keeps an eye on them anyway. He tells them to listen to Cliche, to make sure they’re on time to practice, and to actually use the midday Silent Reflection period for what it’s supposed to be used for, which is rest. 

Pearson doesn’t sleep during Silent Reflection, which is odd, but not unheard of. Usually, he reads. And when he reads, his lips move. Tyler finds this profoundly irritating. 

Pearson’s lying on his stomach, on his bunk, feet kicking lightly. Tyler watches him from across the aisle, arms folded over his chest. It’s irritating for any number of reasons, namely because it means Pearson has some private book of his own to read, and that makes Tyler jealous. Tyler has already read everything in the compound with printed word on it, most of it twice – not that it was particularly interesting stuff. Most of the books were manuals with titles like, “101 Hockey Drills” or terrible, pulp detective novels written by people with a gift for neither plot nor language. The more modern of these always had a moral shoehorned in at the end, and the hero was always a stalwart Union patriot – Tyler’s mother would have despaired. 

She once told Tyler that, “The novel, as art, died in the eighties.” 

Tyler’s dad had frowned mildly at that, and said, “Even art must cater to the times, dear. Pass the salt, would you?” 

Tyler notices that Pearson has closed his eyes, but his lips still move. Not reading anymore, then. Praying. 

Probably for a spot on the team, or for his next shot to go in. Tyler rolls his eyes. Tyler has little patience for people who spend their time praying for things that they could more likely accomplish if they spent the time in actual practice. 

Tyler’s father was fond of saying, “Religion is a tool for reaching people who cannot be reached through reason.” Which seemed to be a fairly accurate summary of his philosophy on the subject. Religion, he said, was a balm. 

Tyler’s mom had laughed when she heard that. “An opiate, perhaps?” 

Tyler’s dad dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “How delightfully revolutionary of you.” 

This, of course, had been said in the privacy of their kitchen. When Tyler asked why, when he was in public, his father and the rest of his educated friends showed the same fawning deference to the church that the PerT-tagged masses did, or why he and Tyler and his mother all attended services every week, his dad laughed and said, “How can we expect them to go on believing in the all-knowing father, Tyler, if we ourselves don’t also pretend to believe?” He’d grown more serious then and added, “There are appearances and certain arrangements one must keep up. Relationships are half of the work of business.” 

Tyler scowled at that, because the implication was that this was something Tyler would need to know when he was in the employ of his father’s business. That Tyler was going to have to navigate this gray world that had rules which must be followed, and rules which could be ignored, and rules which only had to be followed sometimes. And the whole thing had seemed frustrating and stupid, a waste of time when Tyler would rather be playing hockey. 

Back then, Tyler would have given absolutely anything to be allowed to play in the pros – or at least to be allowed to try, to see how far he could get. He looks back on this younger version of himself with a great deal of derision. Here it is, he thinks, everything you wanted. Stuck in the minors in a backwater town, surrounded by people who despise you, churning out 82 games a year and spending three hours for every one of game time on a bus. 

He thinks, if the guys from the public rink could see him now, they’d probably laugh. Even Wayne. Probably _especially_ Wayne. 

Pearson finishes whatever he’s doing, opens his eyes and sits up. He turns his attention to a sweater with a half-mended tear. He’s humming, and the quiet of the room makes it seem loud. Most everyone’s napping, just Cliche and Soupy talking quietly over by Soupy’s bunk. 

Cliche breaks off talking, and Tyler waits for him to tell Pearson to knock it off, but instead he only grins. “Haven’t heard that one in a awhile.” 

Pearson looks up. “Naught be all else to me, save that thou art,” he sings to Cliche, smiling. He has a clear, pleasant voice. 

Cliche shakes his head, amused and turns his attention back to Soupy. And later he knocks Pearson lightly on the shoulder when he walks across the room, calling out, “C’mon, guys. Time for video.” 

He likes Pearson, Tyler thinks. This is how Cliche treats a rookie he actually likes, a revelation that leaves Tyler confused. Not quite jealous, but maybe not not-jealous, either. Tyler follows the shuffle of guys out of the dorms, but he hasn’t made it more than halfway across the quad, when he hears Pearson call out, “Hey – what’s that?” 

Pearson trots off across the lawn, making fresh footprints in the first snow of the year, and then wriggles himself half under the steps that lead up to the building. He comes back covered in mud and dead leaves, but holding something. The sun breaks though just then and highlights him like a rising saint. He holds up whatever he’s got, and even from a distance, it’s clear it’s the missing horseshoe, glinting in the sun. 

 

 

The first scrimmage of the year, Tyler is pleased to find himself back in a black jersey. The first line wears black jerseys – and it’s him and Vey and Andy. They were a line the second half of last season, and they did really well, so Tyler isn’t particularly surprised they’re on a line again, but he’s still relieved he hasn’t slipped. 

The second line wears purple. The third line wears gold, the fourth line wears gray, and everybody else gets white. It’s not like Coach Morris has said anything yet, but it’s pretty easy to tell what the coaches are thinking if you just pay attention. 

He and Vey and Andy kick ass in the scrimmage too. Which is satisfying, even if it is just practice. Tyler takes particular joy in beating Brandon Kozun on a breakaway. Kozun used to be the first line right wing. But he’s not now, because that’s Tyler’s job. Tyler smirks at him. 

At dinner after, Tyler sets his tray down between Wealer and Vey, and conversation at the table stops. Which, Tyler knows, means they were talking about him. Wealer looks guilty. Across the table, Kozun looks at him and then looks away. Tyler ignores the silence and sits down, stabbing into a potato with perhaps slightly more force than required. 

The rookies are clustered down at the other end of the table, and Tyler can hear laughter and Pearson’s voice stumbling through the pronunciation of some Russian word. Pearson’s taken the two Russians under his wing, even though that’s basically the blind leading the blind. The Russians are teaching him, and Pearson repeats whatever they say back to them, slow and awkward, which has the rest of the rookies doubled over laughing. 

The Russian are probably making Pearson say all kinds of really stupid shit. Anyway, Pearson’s not supposed to be speaking Russian; it’s illegal. Even the Russians aren’t supposed to speak Russian. Not that anyone down here really seems to care. 

Vey clears his throat. “Smyth’s gonna play for the Blue & Orange. Did you guys see that?” 

There’d been a small piece about the Blue & Orange on the news that morning. Asking if they’d seen it is like asking if they were all breathing oxygen today. Of course they’d seen it. 

Wealer smiles. “Hope he packed a sweater.” 

“Hope he packed a pacifier. Smitty’s gonna be the only guy on that team a day over twenty.” This is pretty rich coming from Kozun, who’s maybe a year older than Tyler. Tyler snorts. 

Kozun looks at him. “You got something to say, Toffoli?” 

Tyler shakes his head no. The Blue & Orange are going to need a lot more than Ryan Smyth to be competitive this year, but that’s probably not welcome commentary coming from him. 

The sound of the rookies laughing filters in again, filling the quiet. 

“So, hey,” Kozun pauses, gestures with his fork. “You think Morris is gonna run some passing drills tomorrow?” His voice is pitched like he’s talking to the whole table, false casual, but he’s looking right at Tyler. “Since it seems like some guys maybe need it?” 

Tyler glares back at him. 

“Did you pass the puck even once while you were out there today, Toffoli?” 

“You still sore you lost?” Tyler fires back. 

“No, no of course not.” Kozun grins, snide. “I’m just genuinely concerned for your development, _Tyler_. Although, now that you mention it – ” His attention slides over to Vey. “Veysey, how’s it feel to play with a guy who doesn’t think you’re good enough to touch the puck?” 

The rest of the table’s goes quiet, even the rookies have stopped talking, and Tyler can feel their eyes on him. “Vey’s the best center we have,” Tyler says, very slow, very deliberate. “That’s why he plays on the first line. That’s how that works.” He stares right at Kozun. 

Kozun is starting to get red, high in his cheeks. 

“But don’t worry.” Tyler smiles at him. “You look really nice in purple.” 

Kozun stands up. 

Vey rolls his eyes. “Dammit, Toffoli – ” 

“Boys.” 

Tyler looks behind him, and Coach Meyer is standing there. He clears his throat; he looks awkward. Tyler gets a spike of adrenaline, but Meyer’s not looking his way. He’s looking at the rookies. “LaDue and Ebert. Can I see you in my office, please?” 

Kozun and Vey and Tyler all go quiet, a new layer of tension hanging in the air. None of them watch LaDue and Ebert leave. 

When Coach Meyer’s gone, Kozun seems to unfreeze, and he goes back to glaring at Tyler. Vey sighs and pushes his tray away. He stands, puts a hand on Kozun’s chest, pressing him back. “Let’s just go.” And then he glances back at the table, at Wealer. “Let’s _go_ ,” he says, sharper. 

Wealer rises, and Tyler is left alone at his end of the table. 

Tyler works his jaw back and forth, the frustration simmering along under his skin. He keeps his eyes down until they’re gone. His throat tastes bitter. He swallows. 

“Why does Coach Meyer want to see them?” 

Tyler looks up. Pearson is looking at him. The other rookies are looking at Pearson. 

They all look blankly curious. Like they don’t know. Like they haven’t realized. Tyler shrugs. “They’re getting cut.” 

Pearson’s mouth opens and closes. “What? Just like that?” 

“Just like that,” Tyler says. 

Pearson looks surprised. He swallows quickly and looks down, and Tyler forgot. Had forgotten that the first time this happens, it feel different. That the first time, you don’t see it coming. The part of him that ached the first time he watched it happen aches all over again. 

“Look, it’s – ” Tyler casts about, flails for something, anything, to say. “It’s hockey. That’s just hockey.” 

Pearson glares, frustration clear on his face. He turns back to the three remaining rookies. They look to him. “It’s fine,” Pearson says, voice dropping a little. “It’s gonna be fine.” 

They nod, their heads bowed close. 

 

 

In their next scrimmage, Pearson gets put in a purple jersey. Tyler knows what that means, not just second line, that means Pearson is making the team. You don’t set guys up to scrimmage on the second line if they’re not sticking around. Which isn’t _surprising_ or anything. He is, as Tyler has already come to terms with, good. 

For a rookie, anyway. 

He also seems quite settled in Manch. It’s not just Cliche, everyone likes him. He’s friends with the vets, and Joner and Kozun, which means that he’s always acting like he’s got no use for Tyler – now if there’s anyone around, when Tyler says, “Faster steps, less gliding” or, “What Coach Meyer means when he says, ‘wait for the D to commit’ is – ” 

Pearson just nods dismissively and says, “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” 

And if Tyler says something to one of the other rookies, like, “Don’t mess around with your stick during practice, the coaches hate it.,” Pearson rolls his eyes and says, “I’ve got it. You don’t need to yell at them, I’ve got it.” Or just, “Don’t be such a fucking killjoy, Toffoli.” 

He mostly takes his cues from Joner and Kozun. And, Tyler knows from his somewhat anthropological assessment of team dynamics, those two take their cues from Cliche and Soupy. Who are good enough sure, but there’s a reason they’ve spent their whole careers down in the minor leagues. Tyler sniffs. If Pearson wants to take his cues from them, that’s just _fine._

Across the room, Pearson laughs, bright and loud. Tyler glowers at the purple jersey, thoughts interrupted. Pearson’s also already more at home in Manch than Tyler, and he’s only been here two weeks. Whereas Tyler has been here for a _year –_

That brings him up short. He’s been here almost a year. Almost exactly a year since he saw Scarborough, or saw his parents, or talked to them – 

Tyler swallows. Pushes the thought away. He gives his laces one last tug and heads out to the ice. Today the first and fourth lines are going up against the second and third. Any day he gets to play hockey is a good day – hockey is the best part of being stuck here in Manchester, possibly the only good thing about being stuck in Manchester. And even if it is just a scrimmage, he gets to go up against Kozun and Pearson, so all the better. Tyler glances around the rink. Dean is here today, and he’s up in the stands; Tyler pushes off a little harder, puts an extra spring in his stride. 

This scrimmage, Tyler gets good chances, despite Kozun doing his best to try to run him. He’s making snide remarks to Tyler in between whistles, too, but Tyler ignores him. Pearson and Weal and Kozun are all solid, but they haven’t played together before. As an established line, Tyler, Vey and Andy have a definite advantage. Vey taps his stick against Tyler’s shin pad as he skates by to take the faceoff, glancing sharply toward the wall. That means Vey’s planning on winning the faceoff, which is cocky, but not unlikely. And that he plans on batting the puck to his right, towards the wall. Tyler’s side. Tyler nods. 

Vey crouches in place. Coach Meyer is playing linesman for them; he drops the puck, and – 

Vey wins the faceoff clean, and bats it to his right. 

Tyler snipes it out from under Pearson, who’s just a beat too late, and blasts up ice past Muzz, who’s cheating low. Tyler’s got time, so he drags, forehand, backhand, turn to pull the goalie sideways, which had been one of Wayne’s favorite moves, and – 

It goes off the post. 

Muzz snags the rebound, and he turns and fires the thing up to Wealer. Tyler looks, turns, but he’s only made it two strides back before Wealer’s got the shot off. 

Pearson’s there to try to bang home the rebound, but Joner doesn’t give him one. He tosses the puck up in the air and catches it in his glove. “Thanks for the odd man rush practice, boys,” he says, when Tyler makes it back to their end. “Really, _thanks._ ” 

Pearson laughs. “I see how it is. Whole lotta fancy stickhandling, but Toffy don’t back check, eh?” 

Insults from Kozun are one thing; insults from a rookie are quite another. Tyler drifts to a stop. “Hey, fuck you.” 

Pearson looks surprised for a second, then he grins. “ _Oooh_. He’s not a robot, after all.” His tone is light, teasing. 

Tyler’s not in the mood. Pearson’s close enough that Tyler can see a chipped tooth, and the sharp challenge in his eye. 

Chest to chest they’re almost exactly the same height. Tyler shoves him. 

Pearson stops grinning. He stumbles and has to catch himself. He looks at Tyler, hesitating, as though uncertain quite what to do next. 

Tyler flicks his gloves and grabs jersey. Pearson’s face hardens. He loses that confused look and shoves at Tyler’s chest. They spin once, Pearson ditching his gloves – and then the whistle goes, shrill and loud near Tyler’s ear and Meyer shoves them apart, sliding between them, his arms wrapped around Tyler’s shoulders. “That’s enough, boys. That’s enough.” 

 

 

In the locker room after, Meyer points at him and Pearson. “You and you,” he says, and points upstairs. 

And if there was ever any doubt that Dean was watching, there’s your confirmation that he was. 

Pearson looks at Tyler. Tyler sighs. Dean is going to be pissed. But there’s no sense in putting off the inevitable, no sense in making Dean pissed _and_ impatient – logic that Pearson does not seem to buy into, because he drags his feet behind Tyler the whole way up the stairs. He stands, wide-eyed, outside Dean’s door. 

“Wait,” he says, when Tyler raises his hand to knock. 

Tyler waits, but Pearson doesn’t say anything; he just stares straight ahead, jaw working. 

Tyler rolls his eyes and knocks. 

“Come in.” 

Dean has them both sit down. Pearson’s leg jitters up and down, and Tyler glares at him, trying to catch his attention, to get him to knock it off, but Pearson’s eyes are locked on his hands, twisting in his lap. 

“Tanner,” Dean says, and Pearson's hands freeze. “I appreciate the intensity of your game, but there is no place for fighting a teammate in this organization. Not on the ice, nor anywhere else. Do you understand?” It’s strange to hear Dean turn that tone on somebody else. 

“Yes, sir.” Pearson says it so quiet, Tyler almost can’t hear him. 

“You’re new, and so it’s understandable that you might not know how we operate here in the Black. But you, Tyler, are not new.” And now Dean turns that full disappointed, professorial stare at Tyler. “You are not a rookie, and you absolutely knew better.” 

Tyler works his jaw back and forth, says a grudging, “Yes, sir.” 

Dean frowns. “I have rather limited disciplinary options at my disposal, but know that I’ll be tasking Mr. Cliche with finding you some extra chores to do.” 

It’s the least of what he expected. Tyler sighs. “Yes, sir.” 

“Now, Tanner – ” 

Tyler can see Pearson holding his breath, waiting. 

“I’m bumping you up to the first line.” 

Pearson’s head snaps up. 

Dean continues, “Obviously, Mark gets final say, but I’d like to see you and Tyler and Linden on a line together.” 

That hits like a slap. Tyler can feel his face going red. _“What?_ Dean, you can’t – ” 

Vaguely, Tyler is aware of Pearson staring at him, face frozen in a shocked expression. “I get extra chores, and he gets _put on the first line?_ You can’t do that.” 

Tyler counts three full beats of silence before Dean answers, one eyebrow raised and in a flat, clipped tone. “And why not?” 

“Because – ” Tyler stumbles, searching. “Because it’s not fair. And because he’s not good enough.” As soon as it’s out of his mouth, Tyler knows that second part’s a lie. And Dean knows it too. 

Pearson stays frozen, not saying a word. But Dean doesn’t look away from Tyler’s face. 

Dean draws himself up a little, and says, “Aristotle said, ‘He who has never learned to obey cannot be a good commander.’” His eyebrows draw together. “Do you know who Aristotle was?” 

Dean has got to be fucking kidding. Tyler rubs a frustrated hand across his face. “He was – a Greek philosopher and scientist. He taught Alexander the Great about logic.” 

“Do you know where that quote is from?” 

Tyler racks his brain. “Uh – from the lectures on the philosophy of human affairs. From _Politics._ ” 

“Yes. And what preceded _Politics?”_

Dean is the most infuriating man alive. “ _Ethics_ ,” Tyler grinds out. 

“And Aristotle’s take on ethics?” 

“Are you seriously asking me this?” Dean just blinks back at him, waiting. Tyler sighs. “Aristotle… believed that ethics had to be practically applied. You had to try to be better and do good things.” Tyler closes his eyes, trying to recall the quote. “’We do not study in order to know what virtue is… but to become good… for otherwise there would be no profit’.” Tyler opens his eyes. “But Dean, I really, really doubt he was talking about hockey.” 

Dean cracks a small smile at this. “No, I suppose he wasn’t. Do you take my meaning though?” 

None of this is fair. It’s not fair that Pearson’s getting put on the first line. It’s not fair that only Tyler’s getting punished for their fight, especially when Pearson was asking for it like that. It’s not fair that Dean gets to dictate everything about everything. But there’s not a goddamn thing Tyler can do about any of it. He blows a long breath out. “Yes. I understand.” 

“Good,” Dean says. He doesn’t dismiss them though; he folds his hands on the desk, mouth pursed for a second, like he’s searching for words. “I’m leaving again for the Black tonight. To stay.” 

The sting of it catches Tyler by surprise, a heated little fold of panic behind it. “Tonight? You’re leaving already?” They haven’t talked at all, not really. Dean’s been gone for months, and this fall he’s barely been here, and he’s hardly said anything to Tyler at all, hasn’t said anything at all except all the usual bullshit: _good practice_ and _nice shift_ and _keep your head up out there, Tyler._ Like Tyler was just any player, like Dean was just any GM, and the questions all rush up, all catch sharp in his throat – _where are my parents? Why haven’t they contacted me? What’s going to happen? Am I stuck here, forever?_ And, _what the fuck, Dean? What the fuck?_

Dean looks at him, pity stamped all over his face. Tyler can feel his cheeks go hot again, and his throat closes. And fuck Dean for telling him now, with Pearson in the chair right next to him, when Tyler can’t ask anything important at all. When he has to swallow everything back, until it all sits in his stomach like ice and lead. 

Right in that moment, Tyler hates him. Because Dean’s face makes it perfectly clear: even if Pearson weren’t in the room and even if Dean weren’t leaving, Tyler’s not getting any answers. Not from him. 

His eyes start to sting. Tyler looks away. 

“Go on,” Dean says. “I’m sure both of you have lots of things you need to do today.” He shuts the door behind them. 

It takes Pearson most of the walk back to shake off his nerves. He does, actually, shake himself, like a dog, and then he looks at Tyler, all bug-eyed and stupid, and says, “Dude. You called the GM of the entire organization _Dean._ You _yelled_ at him. What the fuck?” 

What the fuck, indeed. All those questions are still sliding around in Tyler’s chest, cold and jagged under his skin. “Fuck off, Pearson,” he says. And keeps walking. 

 

 

As a line, they do really, really well – much to the amusement of everybody except Tyler – and Pearson, who, gratifyingly, seems to find the whole arrangement as distasteful as Tyler does. 

Vey slides into the role of begrudging peacemaker, pivot in more ways than one. On the bench, Tyler will fume, and two feet away Pearson will bash his stick against the boards, and in between them, Vey will roll his eyes and shrug. “I mean, I guess it’s kind of awesome,” he allows. “I think you’re both trying so hard to show off all I have to do is throw the puck toward the net and one of you is gonna get it in.” 

The Monarchs start their season on the road against Springfield, the Silver & Blue’s farm team. Springfield is two hours south – 

“Everything here is two hours from everything else in this fucking league,” Cliche said that morning, bitching while he supervised the rookies and Tyler stowing the gear on the bus. “Long enough to be a pain in the ass. Not long enough to get any decent sleep.” 

“Except St. John,” Soupy’d said, arms crossed, and engaged in an equally lazy sort of supervision. 

Cliche spat. “Except St. John,” he agreed, and tilted his head and looked off to the middle distance, and whether he was thinking about St. John or hockey or something else entirely, Tyler couldn’t say. Cliche blinked and shook his head. “Pick up the pace, Toffoli. We don’t got all day.” 

On the bus, Tyler sits next to Wealer. Mostly because Tyler sat next to Wealer the bus ride before Wealer’s one and only multi-point game, and Wealer thinks maybe that means something. But also because of all the guys here, Wealer probably gives Tyler the least shit. A few rows back, Tyler can hear laughter from the card game Pearson’s got going on. Tyler glances over at Wealer – Weal isn’t much for cards, but sometimes he’s up for dice. But Wealer’s dozing, head drooping down towards his chest, nodding in time to the rhythm of the bus’ sway. 

Tyler looks out the window instead. Factories roll by, cement and steel landscapes. But there’s no smoke billowing from the stacks. No one’s bothered to clear the snow from the walks, and the parking lots are all empty. Tyler’s father would call it a waste. Tyler’s father has a deep and profound respect for what he calls the _efficient utilization of resources_. He would have said it was a waste of time, money, and space, and then probably quoted the price of copper to Tyler, because he is the sort of man who can pull those numbers from the air. 

Not that knowing the price of copper would do Tyler a damn bit of good right now. 

Tyler’s first pro game – just three weeks removed from being deposited on Dean’s doorstep, just three weeks in tags, just three weeks of being a _hockey player_ first and a _Toffoli_ second – he’d played maybe six or seven minutes and been so nervous he thought he was going to throw up after every shift. He’d played with Clune and Nolan, both of whom had towered over him, both of whom had been twice as broad as anyone Tyler had ever met. 

Nolan had smiled at him, showing off a broad gap in his teeth. “Easy, Rook, easy,” he said, one enormous hand swallowing Tyler’s shoulder. 

And now it’s the first game again, albeit the first game of his second season. Even now, there’s still a flutter of nerves under Tyler’s skin. His heart pulses a little quicker when they pull up to the building, half dread, and half the impossible, perfect allure of playing. _Hockey_. Hockey is starting up again. 

They file off the bus one after the next. The vets first, followed by the rookies, who carry a bag over each shoulder, and Tyler with them, because he’s still being punished. Tyler makes it up to the bottleneck at the door where one of the Silver  & Blue officials is checking their PerTs as they enter. 

When he makes it up there, the guy grabs one of Tyler’s tags. He runs it though his machine, which elicits a loud, angry beep. “Oh, not that one,” Tyler says. “That one never reads right.” He shifts his load over to one arm so he can take that tag back, and flips the other around so it’s easier for the guy to reach. This one reads fine. The man gives him a sharp look but lets him through. 

For a minute, the tags feel heavy around his neck. 

On the ice though – on the ice his head is bright and clear. His blood sings through his veins as he circles, breathing in the hum of the crowd, and the chatter of skates, and the PA crackling to life. Tyler drops down to the ice to stretch, and Miller, one of the rookies, drops down next to him. Pearson falls in beyond him. Tyler stretches his hamstring, then swaps sides, and leans into it. 

Miller switches sides too. 

Tyler rolls his shoulders, and Miller mirrors this as well. The stretch filters down the line, Pearson picking it up from Miller, and Nicky who’s just beyond him, picking it up from Pearson. 

When he realizes what’s going on, Tyler pauses for a second, surprised. He looks at Miller, then really looks at him – at the way his eyes are darting around the arena, the quickness of his breath. 

“It’s easier if you don’t look around so much,” Tyler offers. “I mean, just think about the hockey. It’s just hockey, right?” He smiles. 

Miller tries to smile back; it still looks a little shaky. 

“He’s fine,” Pearson cuts in, sharp. He glares at Tyler. “We’re not going to fuck up.” 

Pearson’s got a good game-face, and he keeps that hard-set look up all night. He doesn’t fuck up. At least, not too bad, no more than anyone else. They’re all still shaking the rust off. 

In the second, he feeds one to Tyler that ties the game. Pearson shoulders the defender aside, glances up quick, and his eyes find Tyler’s, and his pass find’s Tyler’s stick, flush to the ice sitting short-side. A wide-open net. Easy money. 

Tyler can’t stop smiling, even as the crowd hisses and bangs the glass. Vey hits him first, then Pearson, who skates in on a delay, bumps into him almost hesitant. 

Vey _tsks_ at Pearson on the bench, grabbing his helmet and shaking it. “First point. First pro point, boy. You gotta act happier than that!” 

On the ice, everything is forgiven. On the ice, everything is easy, and the only thing that matters is how good you are at hockey. And Tyler is very good at hockey. Regulation ends in a tie. Overtime ends in a tie, too. For the shootout, Coach taps Tyler first. 

For the first time in months, all the noise in his head ebbs and ceases. Everything goes perfectly quiet, perfectly still. Tyler can smell the cold of the ice. His vision sharpens, almost like the light settles at the perfect level of brightness, and it’s as if Tyler’s lungs can finally find all the oxygen they need, like the whole world just clicks, locks in. He looks down the ice, at the twine behind the goalie, and waits. 

The whistle goes. 

 

 

The rookies’ morning bell goes off at six thirty, just like it always does. Tyler’s eyes slit open; he stares up at the ceiling, still invisible in the early morning gloom. In the bunk next to him, Wealer grumbles and turns over, pulls his pillow over his head. They got home from Hartford last night around three. Tyler rubs at his face. 

“Hey.” Someone headed down the central aisle shakes the foot of his bunk. “That means you.” 

Two weeks after his skirmish with Pearson, Tyler is still on rookie chore detail. He sits up, still trying to wipe the sleep from his eyes. 

Pearson smirks at him on his way past, already dressed and headed for the door. “Nice hair, Toffoli.” 

Whoever was on kitchen duty last did a shitty job, and they spend most of the breakfast shift cleaning up the mess. Beyond the scrubbing, Pearson and Nicky, who have been deemed least likely to fuck it up, have been put in charge of cooking the usual offering of oatmeal and bacon – no eggs today. Tyler makes the coffee. Coffee for an entire hockey team and staff involves hauling carafes full of water and great, industrial-size scoops of dusty, sour-smelling coffee grounds. Tyler closes his eyes, rests his forehead against the machine, and lets himself dream for just a moment of Blue Mountain and Kona and the other names on the tidy paper bags his mother would bring home from the shop. They’d each had their own rich, earthy scent, and she would brew the coffee and serve it in delicate, enameled china, pouring him the smallest sip, topped off with cream and a spoon of fine, white sugar. Tyler remembers her early in the morning, still in her silk robe, hair loose around her shoulders. On Sundays, she would serve flaky, featherweight croissants that tasted of butter, or dense, nutty scones bursting with fruit, and Tyler’s father would wrap his arms around her from behind. Kiss her hair and say, “Tyler, your mother is a genius. Your mother is a goddess.” 

“Drink you coffee,” she would say, and smile. 

_“Tytoff.”_ When Tyler opens his eyes, Miller is holding out a bowl of thick, gray oatmeal, two strips of bacon draped over the top. “Breakfast.” 

Tyler nods his thanks. He takes his bowl over to the table where the other rookies are sitting. By now, the rest of the team is starting to filter in. Lots of dark circles under their eyes; most of them beeline for the coffee. 

Tyler digs a spoon into his oatmeal and lifts it up, watches it stick and then slowly slide off the end of his spoon, leaving a greasy smear behind. He’s almost too tired to eat; his stomach turns. 

“What’s the matter, Rich Kid? Breakfast not up to your standards? You wanted what? Caviar?” Soupy stands there, watching him, steaming mug of coffee in hand. 

Tyler wonders if Soupy thinks he likes caviar, or thinks it is a particularly appropriate breakfast food, or if it’s something he just associates with wealth. With _snobbery_. It’s possible, Tyler considers, Soupy doesn’t even know what caviar _is._

Tyler’s parents used to throw parties, just exactly the kind Soupy probably imagines. In which, yes, trays of caviar would circulate, served with toasted brioche rounds and crème fraiche, accompanied by platters of pears and camembert, lobster salad on endive. On those evenings, Tyler remembers watching his parents dress for dinner, helping his mother with her zipper, the flash of his father’s cuff links catching the light. Those evenings, if he was quiet and polite, he was allowed to circulate among the guests, where he was introduced as “Peter Toffoli’s son.” This title was met with broad, approving smiles. The women said, _so handsome, just like his father,_ and the men would ask him questions about his studies: _Did he enjoy history? How was he at math? Better have a head for numbers if he’s following his father’s path_. 

The best of these parties, of course, were the ones Dean came to. In the crowd, Dean would ask the same, boring questions about his schoolwork, face perfectly serious, voice perfectly flat. But then later, if Tyler found him out on the porch, cigar in hand, or by the bar, he would sit with Tyler and grin and say, “Okay, now we can talk about the really important stuff. Tell me how your hockey is coming.” 

He told Tyler stories too. First about the Teal – about Pat Falloon and Teemu Selanne. Later, it was stories from the Orange, and still later after that, about the Black. 

There weren’t as many stories about the Black. By the time Dean had been named manager of the Black, he hadn’t come around the Toffolis’ very often. And by the time Dean went to work for the Black, there hadn’t been very many parties, anyway. 

All this reminiscing makes Tyler slow to answer, and this seems to piss Soupy off. He drops to the bench just across the table from Tyler, digs the spoon into the oatmeal and holds it just under Tyler’s nose. “Not good enough for you, Rich Kid?” 

Soupy was the one that started the whole _Rich Kid_ nickname, born because Tyler told the team certain things about his dad before he realized what a big deal it was – told them how his father had taken over the junior team in Scarborough when it was being mismanaged, and built them a new rink, and sold tickets to the people who lived nearby for cheap. Tyler’d known, intellectually anyway, that this made him different – that children of men in his father’s position didn’t play hockey, but he’d been proud of his father. 

He’s still proud of his father. 

He would like to know if his father’s thinking about him. 

He would like to know where his father is. 

But that’s not how Soupy and the others had seen it. Soupy thinks he’s a spoiled brat, and he’s got no qualms about letting Tyler know it. And maybe Tyler _was_ a spoiled brat when he first got here, but he’s a lot better now. Regardless, _Rid Kid_ still gets pulled out when Tyler’s too slow at his chores, or fusses too much over how he wants his gear, or when Soupy thinks he’s acting like he’s too good for something. Like oatmeal. 

Tyler glares. Soupy complains about the food all the time. Cliche complains about it every goddamn day. And that, of course, is fine. No one says shit to them, because Soupy and Cliche have been around forever. But, Tyler. _Tyler_ isn’t even allowed to look cross-eyed at his meal. And – it’s not fair, Tyler didn’t even _say_ anything. 

Tyler takes the spoon from Soupy without comment; he eats. 

He’s got lead in his boots at practice, though. Too slow off the line, and too slow to be there for Vey’s passes, and too slow to do all but the most half-assed back checking. Coach Morris blows his whistle. “Wake the fuck up, Toffoli!” 

The last straw is walking back to the dorms after, when Pearson laughs and says, “ _Rich Kid_ , ha. You’d think if he was so rich, he could buy some speed.” His voice tilts up, testing, asking the guys for a laugh. 

Tyler stops so hard and so fast, Pearson nearly runs into him from behind. 

“Ooooh,” Soupy calls out. “You better watch out, his daddy might buy somebody to beat you up.” 

Tyler stares hard, down at his shoes. He can feel his face getting red. 

Pearson laughs. 

Soupy’s voice gets serious then, and his face twists up in a hard little smile. “Tytoff’s daddy owns a whole team.” 

Pearson seems uncertain now, as though he’s not sure if Soupy is fucking with him. “Are you serious? I thought you just called him that because he’s so prissy.” 

Soupy laughs and presses on, “Tytoff’s daddy owns the junior team he played for. And the rink they skate in, and like half the town. Isn’t that right, Tytoff?” 

Pearson’s eyes are huge looking at Tyler. “Really?” 

There’s a muscle jumping in Tyler’s jaw. He grits his teeth. “Shut up, Pearson.” 

Person shakes his head. “Well, shit. What the fuck are you doing _here?_ He couldn’t just buy you a spot in the NHL?” 

Tyler swallows. “I said, shut the fuck up.” 

“Is that why you think you get to talk to me like that? Because daddy has money?” There’s real bitterness in Pearson’s tone now, teasing all burnt out of it. He locks eyes with Tyler. 

Tyler forgets about the rest of their teammates, scattered and drifting slowly back towards the dorms. He forgets about the staff, and how they can’t be too far away. He forgets about the row of offices that have windows that look down on the very snow-filled quad they’re standing in. 

And Pearson must be either really, really fucking stupid, or he just didn’t think Tyler had it in him, because Tyler’s punch catches him totally unprepared. Pearson staggers a step, stupid mouth gaping wide open and blood starting to bloom from his lip. He comes back at Tyler hard, though, with a tackle that takes both of them down into the snow bank. Tyler gets his arm free, gets another good shot in – hard enough for the impact to hurt, to reverberate all the way up his arm. 

He hasn’t fought – not down here in Manch. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how, doesn’t mean he hadn’t back in Scarborough. Pearson gets him square in the nose, but Tyler doesn’t feel it at all, too focused on landing another one, appreciating the way it makes Pearson’ teeth knock together with a hard click – 

And then someone grabs ahold of him by the collar. He’s dragged backwards and in front of him, Vey has got Pearson wrapped up in a bear hug, holding him back too. Pearson’s shouting, Tyler can see his mouth moving. Lots of people might be shouting, Tyler might be shouting, but his ears are ringing too loud to hear anything. His head starting to throb. 

Cliche – it’s Cliche behind him – drags him up towards to the dorms. Pearson gets taken towards the dining hall. Presumably so they don’t try to kill each other. Cliche takes him straight back, right past all the bunks and straight into the shower room. He throws Tyler up against the tiled wall. “Do I have to turn the cold water on to make my point?” 

Tyler shakes his head dully. “No.” 

“Listen to me.” Cliche's pissed. Right up in Tyler’s face. “I got enough going on without having to deal with your shit, you understand me?” 

Tyler nods. “Yes.” His voice sounds thick, congested. 

“You made your goddamn point, so knock it the fuck off, okay? Or next time it’s not gonna be me yelling at you, it’s gonna be Coach Morris, and you are really, really not going to like how that goes, got it?” 

Tyler nods again. Cliche has a point. “Yeah.” 

Cliche’s head drops, and he rubs his forehead. He sighs. “And Soupy shoulda laid off earlier. Don’t think I’m not gonna yell at him too, okay?” 

That startles Tyler into looking up. 

Cliche looks back at him, his mouth a flat, unhappy line. He pats Tyler’s shoulder. “Get cleaned up. You still gotta play tonight.” 

 

 

St. John is in town for a three game stretch before Manchester has to return the favor next week. Manch won the first two, 6-1 and 4-0. Tyler got his first hat trick of the year, and has racked up a combined nine points in the span of the two games. Tyler doesn’t know how many points exactly Pearson got over the same period, because Tyler makes it a point not to read Pearson’s stat lines, but a lot of Tyler’s G’s were off Pearson’s A’s, and a lot of Tyler’s A’s set up Pearson’s G’s. 

He has mixed feelings about it. It’s only November, and it feels good to have this many points racked up already. But honestly, Tyler is starting to get bored. 

Most of the teams they play aren’t as good as them, and St. John is really not very good. And now they have to play them a third time. They go up on the power play early in the second, already leading. Pearson takes the first pass, carries it in, but then instead of setting up, he just sort of drifts, high, by the hash marks. He looks over at Tyler, and then he skates over to the left side of the ice, still holding onto the puck, because St. John seems determined to give him all the time and space in the world. 

What the fuck is Pearson doing? 

Tyler cycles over to the right side of the ice, to cover where Pearson is supposed to be. He sets up low, and – as soon as Tyler’s stick is down, Pearson fires the puck at him. Tyler has to drag it, basically juggle it on his stick, but he does manage to pop it in. 

Coach yells at Pearson for being out of position, but it’s muted, seeing as how they scored. At intermission though, Tyler has to ask. “Seriously – what was that?” 

Pearson just looks at him. “You always score power play goals forehand, left side. _Always._ ” He shrugs. “I just wanted to see if you could do it backhand.” 

Which – Tyler isn’t really sure how to take that at all, and he definitely doesn’t have any sort of response for it. He blinks back at Pearson, until Pearson rolls his eyes and walks away. 

After the game (5-3, Manchester. They got lazy at the end), Tyler thinks he should maybe say something to Pearson. Should maybe say, “Wow. We scored a shit ton of points this series” or “Hey, thanks for at least trying to make it interesting on that one power play” or maybe something like that but less lame. Except that Pearson’s not anywhere to be found. It gets late enough that they’re supposed to be headed for the bus, and Coach Meyer sighs and says, “Hey Toff – go get your liney, wouldya?” and he nods back towards the tunnel. 

When Tyler heads back up that way, Pearson is standing with Joner – both of them pressed up against the railing that separates the tunnel from the stands. There’s a cluster of girls standing just on the other side. One of them has a hand pressed to her mouth, hiding a smile. One of them has her hand in her hair, wrapping and unwrapping a curl around her finger. Pearson is smiling a broad, easy grin, one foot braced on the lower railing, and face turned up towards them, like a flower to the sun. 

Tyler clears his throat. “Come on, guys. We gotta go.” 

Pearson and Joner exchange a glance. “Five minutes Tytoff,” Joner says. “We’ll be right there.” 

“Coach is waiting,” Tyler says. “He’s gonna be pissed.” 

Pearson looks up at the ceiling, like he’s searching for patience or for divine intervention or something. But he does push off the railing. He and Joner wave goodbye to the girls, who flutter their fingers back at them, casting glances over their shoulders. 

Tyler rolls his eyes. 

Pearson gives him a look, and flips him off as he goes by. 

“Nice, Pearson,” Tyler says. “Why don’t you grow the fuck up?” 

“Me?” Pearson scoffs at him. “I need to grow up? Jesus, Toffoli. Maybe if your balls ever dropped you’d figure out why I want to talk to girls.” He shakes his head. “ _Christ.”_

 

 

On the bus ride after the game, Tyler thinks about Scarborough. And about Wayne. 

One of the last games they played before Wayne left to go play junior in Owen Sound was against the kids from the neighborhood to the north. Tyler was thirteen, temperamental even on his best days, and he’d had a shitty game: no points, and he’d gotten into three separate scrapes – each time with this kid named Ben who sometimes skated with them. Ben had yellow hair and blue eyes. He always ignored Tyler – wouldn’t even talk to Tyler, even when they were playing on the same team. 

Tyler hated him. 

After the game, Tyler finished dressing fast and went outside because his chest felt really tight, everything hot and pressing up close under his skin, like he was on the verge of angry tears – and thirteen was way too old to cry in front of the guys. 

Wayne caught up to him at the edge of the park next door to the rink, and he dropped a heavy arm around Tyler’s shoulders. At that point, they’d had three years of playing together, formed the bones of a rough partnership on the ice. Being thirteen had brought an additional intensity to Tyler’s mood swings, and Wayne had weathered these with more tolerance than the rest of Tyler’s peers. But this level of kindness and comfort was unprecedented. 

Wayne said, “Gotta learn to let the shitty ones roll off your back.” 

Tyler, caught between fury and confusion, and unsure of his voice, had shrugged. 

“Yeah, I know.” Wayne’s face and his voice were a mix of pity and some wistfulness that Tyler thinks now might have been a premature homesickness. Wayne nodded to himself, as if some internal question had been resolved. “You’re not so bad, Ty.” 

Tyler looked down at his hands, fisted tight in front of him. “Thanks?” 

Wayne was warm against his side, and after a beat, Tyler unbent enough to lean against him. Losing sucked, losing _hurt_. Tyler’s insides were a blizzard of shrapnel. His breath came too fast, and tears pricked the corners of his eyes, despite all his best intentions. And Wayne was the only one who really got that. The only one, Tyler thought, who knew how angry Tyler was. And why. 

Wayne was quiet next to Tyler for a long few minutes, and when he finally did speak, he said, “Tyler, has your dad talked to you about girls?” 

Tyler frowned. This felt like it had come entirely out of the blue, and he looked up at Wayne, trying to get a read on why he might have suddenly shifted the conversation this way – but Wayne was looking out over the park, and not at Tyler at all. 

Tyler’s father had, in fact, had a conversation with him. About how he was to always make eye contact with Cynthia and Lauren when speaking with them. About how it was never alright to hit a girl, even if she hit him first. About how he was going to want to look at girls and want to touch them and how this was all perfectly natural and normal, except for how he wasn’t supposed to actually _do_ any of it until he was married. 

But wanting to look at girls and wanting to touch them had never really been a problem for Tyler, so he had filed it all away under things to worry about someday. Later. And put it all out of his head. 

Tyler shrugged and nodded, which made Wayne look down at him. “Yeah, I can tell from your face he said something to you, alright.” 

Wayne went quiet again, for so long that Tyler thought maybe the conversation was over, except that then Wayne asked, “Did he talk to you about boys?” 

It was an even stranger question, made more so by the fact that Wayne’s voice was really tight, like he was really uncomfortable asking it. And then there was the question itself – if girls were mysterious and weird and to be treated really special, then boys were literally everything else. Boys were like dirt and snow and hockey: omnipresent and every day. What was there to talk _about?_

Wayne still had his arm around Tyler, but he was a little bit stiff, and that make Tyler feel awkward too, because if Wayne was nervous about something then it must be a really big deal. It must be really bad. 

“Some boys like boys,” Wayne said, slow and careful. “The way some boys like girls.” 

Tyler’s heart had tripped a little, right then. His stomach felt like when someone caught you in the corner with your head down, and ran into you really hard. 

“And that’s okay. That’s not bad. Tyler, look at me.” He shook Tyler’s shoulder, and Tyler did look up, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to, feeling nervous and scared for no one reason he could pin down. “That’s not wrong, but – you can’t tell anybody.” Wayne leaned down, his face close to Tyler’s, the whites of his eyes seeming extra bright. “If you feel like that, you can’t let anyone know, okay?” 

Tyler nodded, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was agreeing to. 

Wayne’s face looked sour, and still serious. “You have to watch yourself, okay? You have to be really careful.” He’d stopped then, looked at Tyler and smiled, although his voice still seemed sad. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

So Wayne knew – even before Tyler did, really. Even before the furtive needy thoughts that haunted him at night had resolved themselves into anything concrete. Somehow Tyler had managed to give himself away. And when it became apparent what Wayne had meant – that Wayne had been _right_ – Tyler had panicked a little about that. And packed up at as much of himself as he could, and tucked it away. Because Wayne was right. He couldn’t let anybody find that out. 

Especially not down here in Manch. 

Tyler holds this conversation up next to what Pearson said, replays what Pearson said inside his head – _Maybe if your balls ever dropped you’d figure out why I want to talk to girls_ – Pearson doesn’t think he wants to talk to girls. Pearson doesn’t think he notices girls. Which means Tyler isn’t doing a good enough job. It means Tyler is slipping. And that makes Tyler really mad, because Tyler puts a lot of work into not slipping. 

There’s something else to consider, too. Which is that, in hindsight, Tyler knows the reason Wayne sat him down _that night_ and lectured him _that night_ is that Tyler had spent most of the game trying to pick a fight with Ben Last-Name-Long-Forgotten. Because Ben had had yellow hair, and big blue eyes, and Ben had been pretty – like a girl, and it had absolutely driven Tyler crazy that he hadn’t cared about Tyler at all. Hadn’t given him a second glance. And that – that had been what gave Tyler away. 

So. 

Tyler is not so thick as to be able to trick himself into thinking he hasn’t noticed Pearson’s bright, easy smile. Or the way he gets really pink during practice. Or the quick way he puts on muscle. Tyler’s noticed. He can notice. He just – 

He just needs to get a grip. He needs to notice and then not notice. He needs to let it go. And he needs to be a lot more careful. 

 

 

Having identified this problem, it would be nice if Tyler’s subconscious would now let it go. Except, of course, that’s not how it works. Now when he is addressing his baser needs – which isn’t always easy, given their schedule and the fundamental lack of privacy in his shared accommodations – instead of just abstractions of heat and pressure and friction, Tyler’s mind is happy to provide very concrete, detailed images of Pearson’s mouth, and Pearson’s chest, and the taper of his waist, and the curve of his ass, and Tyler might as well just have told his brain: _don’t think about an elephant_. 

Which makes the reality of having to deal with Pearson on a daily basis all the more irritating. The days have grown very short, and very cold, and their season has slipped from brand new into a steady groove, the calendar flipping from November to December. But everything Pearson says continues to lodge up under Tyler’s skin, like sand in your clothing, or lemon juice in a cut. 

Right now, at this very moment, Pearson is whistling, he pauses only to duck his face into the spray under the showerhead, hands working the soap out of his hair. 

Tyler is not looking. Tyler is staring very hard at the wall in front of him and not looking. He shakes the last of the water out of his hair and wraps a towel around his waist. 

“Hey, Toffoli,” Pearson calls out as Tyler heads for the doors. “Eat a fucking sandwich, when you turn sideways, I can’t see you.” And hidden in the steam, someone laughs. 

Tyler closes his eyes, and in his head, counts to ten. At the very least, in the showers no one can tell he’s blushing. 

He ducks out into the main room of the dorms, bee-lining for his bunk. He dresses quickly, frustration making his movements rough and uncoordinated. Pearson’s out of the showers by the time he’s finishing up, which makes Tyler’s movements that much more rough, and that much more uncoordinated. The zipper on Tyler’s hoodie jams, and Pearson watches him struggle, one eyebrow raised. 

Tyler’s cheeks and the back of his neck feel hot. It feels like someone slipped those chemical heat-packs up under his skin, every inch of him steeped in a frothy, potent blend of frustration and anger. And shame. Tyler needs – air. Tyler needs to be away from people. Tyler needs to be alone for one goddamn minute. He turns to leave the dorms and almost immediately trips over a box Pearson has stacked at the end of his bed. 

Pearson’s mouth quirks. “Graceful, Toffoli.” 

Tyler gives the box a sharp kick that launches it halfway across the room. 

Pearson stops smiling. “Hey.” 

Pearson has crap _everywhere_. And most of it is trash, too. Random magazines. An old glass bottle. Broken figurines. Particularly shiny _rocks_ he’s found outside and dragged in. And he’s weirdly protective of it. Tyler looks at Pearson and then he looks down at the stack of stuff near the end of his bunk. Tyler grabs one of the practice sticks left lying across his trunk and his first thought is to break it in half, just for the satisfaction of the cracking sound it would make. 

And then he spots Pearson’s little book, carefully placed on the top of the pile, where Pearson can have it close at hand. Tyler has figured out it’s a hymnal. The kind they give out to children. 

Tyler is feeling very, very angry. And very, very mean. 

He slips the edge of the blade under the book. It’s lighter than a hockey puck, but not much bigger than one. It’s easy to flip it and catch it again on the end of the blade. 

Pearson goes very still. “Don’t touch that.” 

Tyler flips it in the air again, catches it on his backhand, just to show off. “Can you even read this?” 

“Leave it alone.” Pearson’s voice has gotten really tight, unsteady, like he’s really and truly angry. 

And Tyler thinks, _good._ He meets Pearson’s eyes. “What are you gonna do about it?” He lifts the book again, this time goes it to hit it lacrosse-style. 

Pearson rushes him. 

He hits hard and uncoordinated. No strategy, just pure burning rage that Tyler is more than happy to meet and exchange in kind. 

 

 

His nose is still dripping blood, sitting in Coach Morris’ office. Tyler re-folds and re-positions the handkerchief, looks at the smears of bright red all over his fingers. Sitting next to him, Pearson’s eye is already starting to swell shut. 

Coach just looks at them. 

The seconds tick away in silence, until Pearson can’t take it anymore. He blurts, “Coach, he was – ” 

“Shut up, Pearson.” 

Pearson’s mouth clicks shut, and he looks back down at his hands. One of which, Tyler notes with some satisfaction, he is cradling close and careful to his chest. 

Coach makes them sit in silence for a long time, nothing moving in the room but Tyler re-positioning the handkerchief under his nose. Finally, Coach says, “It’s only December, and you two have already tried to kill each other twice.” He hesitates, considering. “That I know of. God only knows what you’ll have accomplished by spring.” He taps his fingers against the desk. “That is, if you’re still here by spring. I don’t like having problems like you two on my team.” 

He says it all dark and menacing, and Pearson might buy it, but Tyler is skeptical. Between him and Pearson, they’re putting up roughly half of Manchester’s goals. Besides, his parents left him here for the very specific purpose of being on Dean’s team. If Tyler’s going anywhere, it’s to be called up to the Black, and that would be just fine with him. Then Pearson could watch Tyler’s highlights on TV, or read about them in the paper. That thought makes Tyler smile a little, despite his throbbing face. 

“Did you think I wasn’t talking to you, Toffoli? I can absolutely trade you, and I can assure you, I would rather take the hit in the goal scoring department than continue to deal with your antics.” 

Tyler tips his head down, which makes his nose start leaking again, but he wants to be able to see Morris’ face when he says, “Do you really think Dean would let me get traded?” 

Coach Morris barks out a laugh and shakes his head, like he can’t believe Tyler has the nerve. “I think Lombardi’s not coming back to this coast for a while. And I think he’s got a lot bigger things to think about than _you._ ” 

Tyler gets hung up on the first part. “Dean’s not coming back this winter?” 

Coach Morris shakes his head, slow. Then he leans forward and grabs Tyler’s tags, twisting the chain in his fingers until it’s tight all the way around Tyler’s throat. “And these things, Toffoli, mean I can send you wherever I want.” 

Tyler swallows – or, tries to swallow, and can’t. And it’s right there, written on Morris’ face, that he means it. That he would. 

“Yeah,” Coach Morris says, watching as Tyler gets it. “That’s right.” 

Tyler falls back when Coach Morris lets go; his hand goes to his throat, trying to rub away the feeling of the metal cutting into his skin. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Morris says. “You two are going to play together. You two are going to room together. You two are going to be joined at the hip, every second of every day, and you either learn to deal with each other, or I’m shipping you to whatever team offers the highest bid. Or maybe,” and now he’s looking at Pearson, “I’ll just ship you back to that shithole you came from.” 

Pearson slouches in his seat, shoulders curling. But he doesn’t say anything. 

“Now get the fuck out of my office.” 

 

 

By _room together,_ apparently what Coach meant was that he’s kicking Cliche out of his room, and putting Tyler and Pearson in it. 

Cliche is pissed. He stands with arms folded, watching as Tyler drags a second cot into what used to be the Captain’s room. 

It’s not like Tyler’s particularly happy about it either. It’s not a big room. There’s maybe two feet of space between their cots, and with their stuff piled at the end of their beds, not much floor space beyond that. The door won’t even open all the way, not with all the crap Pearson’s dragged in with him. Tyler tries to make his half of the space as neat as possible. He re-makes his bed, fluffing the pillow, and folding the extra blanket carefully at the foot. 

They go to dinner in lockstep, eat in acutely painful silence, and walk in lockstep back. 

Before they turn in for the night, Muzz pokes his head into their room, looks around, and says, “So this is like a cage match, right? Only one of you is coming out in the morning?” Neither Tyler nor Pearson laugh. 

It’s dark in their little room, Cliche’s only got one window, and the curtains are drawn to block the worst of the draft. Beyond the door, the sounds of the guys seem muffled and distant. Tyler undresses slowly. He pulls on the hoodie he likes to sleep in, and changes into his softest pair of sweat pants. The cement floor is icy against his feet. 

Pearson is already in bed by the time Tyler turns around, eyes closed. Asleep, or, more likely, feigning sleep. Tyler crawls into his bed and closes his eyes too. 

“How come you have an extra blanket?” 

It’s the first thing Pearson’s said to him since before they fought. Tyler opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling, at the vague shadows moving across it. The extra blanket is a weight across his feet. “I bought it off Stewart when I first got here.” 

“Oh.” There’s the slight noise of springs as Pearson shifts. “How’d you have money?” 

That’s a fair question. Guys on their ELCs don’t get paid. Not until they sign real contracts. Or get called up to the big club. But when Tyler arrived in Manch, one of the few things he had was a pocketful of crushed bills, each stamped with the colors of the Blue & White. “I brought it with me from home.” 

“Oh.” 

Stewart had probably charged him a ridiculous amount, but then, it’s not like Tyler has much use for cash here. Anyway, Stewart is gone now. Had just up and disappeared thirty games into last season, which Tyler doesn’t like thinking about. For a few days after, everyone had gotten really short tempered and tight-lipped. No one would answer Tyler’s questions about where he went, and there had been one really weird exchange – Tyler had overheard Cliche and Soupy talking. And it sounded for a minute like Soupy _did_ know where Stewart was, but then he’d noticed Tyler and grabbed him by the shoulder, really hard. “What, are you spying for the Union now?” 

“Andrew,” Cliche said, sounding tired. “Leave him alone. He’s just a kid.” 

Soupy didn’t let go. He shook his head. “Not with that name he’s not. He’s got a hell of a lot more in common with them than us.” 

Tyler’s chest tightens at the memory. But only after running all that back through his head, does it occur to him to ask, “Are you cold?” 

There’s a pause before Pearson replies. “What?” 

“Are you cold?” Tyler repeats. It’s his blanket, sure, but it’s not like he’s using it at the moment. 

There’s another pause and then, “No.” Followed by the sound of springs, louder this time as Pearson turns over in his cot. “I’m fine. I’m going to sleep.” 

When Tyler glances over, Pearson is curled on his side, facing away from Tyler. Tyler resettles against his own pillow and closes his eyes. “Goodnight.” 

There’s no response. 

 

 

Sharing a room with Pearson isn’t as much of a disaster as Tyler was worried it would be – they’re still scoring on the ice, and Pearson seems really scared of pissing Coach off again, so he sticks close to Tyler, just like he was instructed to. The proximity actually makes things easier, like Pearson is a virus and Tyler is building up resistance through repeated exposure. He’s not quite so irritating. And he’s not so – distracting, either. 

Pearson still wants to stay up late, and play cards, and bother the vets, but now that just means that he drags Tyler along, too. 

“Toffy!” Cliche says over the poker table. “Who knew you could be such good company?” And Tyler knows it’s just because he just lost a big pot to Cliche – and has been losing to Cliche all night, but it still feels good. 

They’re not his friends, and Tyler shouldn’t forget that. Even tonight, there had been something tight and anxious hanging in the air over the table when he and Pearson walked in. But no one would talk about it, the tension just festered, until Cliche had loudly, cheerfully announced that they were gonna play cards. 

And Pearson still gets a mildly pained look anytime Tyler opens his mouth. He still rolls his eyes and will exchange a pointed glance with Joner, who he’s friends with, or one of the rookies, like, _can you believe I have to hang out with this asshole?_ And they still don’t talk. 

Except in the dark. After they close the door and flip off the light, but before they’re asleep, it’s like the rules that govern their interactions are somehow suspended. Talking in the dark is easier, maybe because Tyler can’t see Pearson’s face, and vice versa. Or maybe just because it feels like they’re alone. 

Tyler lies in bed, flicking his tags one against the other, and Pearson’s voice floats out of the dark. “Can I ask you something?” 

Tyler shrugs, and then realizes Pearson can’t see him, so he says, “Sure.” 

“I heard – Wealer said you didn’t have to wear tags until you got here.” 

Tyler frowns up at the ceiling. Wealer’s probably the closest thing he has to a friend here, but Wealer also needs to learn to keep his mouth shut. “That’s not a question.” 

Pearson lets out a frustrated sigh. “Well – is it true?” 

“Yeah.” 

Pearson goes quiet. Even the sounds of him shifting in bed stop. “How come? How come you didn’t have to, I mean?” 

For the first ten years of Tyler’s life, not wearing PerT tags had seemed right and normal – the natural order of things. David, who drove his father’s car wore them, and Patty, who kept the house wore them, but Tyler’s father didn’t and his mother didn’t, and none of the people who came to their parties did, and none of the children Tyler was tutored with wore them either. It wasn’t until he’d started skating at the public rink that he realized most people did. He’d come home from skating and asked his mother why he didn’t have any tags, and she said, “Because your father worked very hard so that you wouldn’t have to.” 

To Tyler, it didn’t seem like a matter of _having_ to. He didn’t like being the only one without them. He thought they looked cool – the absent-minded way the other boys would tuck them into their clothing, or nonchalantly move them over their shoulder in the showers. And he didn’t like the way the other kids looked at him when they noticed he didn’t have them. 

After his mother had denied his request to get tags, he’d tried to make some. But none of his crude attempts came even close to looking like the real thing, and he’d never dared try to wear them out of his room, much less the house. 

Now look at how it all turned out. How very, Tyler thinks as he taps his tags against his chest, _ironic_. “My dad did a lot of work for the Union,” he says, slowly. “And my parents are Free Agents, so when I was born, I was a Free Agent.” Tyler thinks there may have been an exchange of money as well, because once Mr. MacArthur, who worked with Tyler’s father, and had four children, had joked that they weren’t having any more because, “We can’t afford to keep the tags off.” 

Tyler hadn’t really understood what he meant, and Mr. MacArthur had never explained, but Tyler thinks that was maybe it. 

“So… what happens when you get called up? Are you a Free Agent again?” 

Tyler likes that Pearson said _when_. When and not if. He doesn’t know the answer though. “I don’t know.” 

“Or, if you leave here? Could you just leave hockey and be a Free Agent again?” 

“I don’t know.” Tyler really doesn’t know, but he’s starting to get a very strong idea of what the answer might be. That he let his parents and Dean lock a door they said was going to protect him, only to find out it was really a cage. When he re-lives that moment in his head, he can feel the touch of his father’s shaking hands as they fastened the tags around his throat. And he remembers how they stood in the dark just inside the Monarchs’ gates and Tyler’s face was wet, and his mother sobbing, and his father – his father’s hair wild and whipped about by the wind, and his shaking hands holding Tyler’s face. The way he kissed Tyler’s forehead and promised – promised over and over again – that they’d be back for him. And then how’d the driven off, and left him. 

Tyler’s breath catches in his throat, and he rolls over onto his side, curling himself around his pillow. He presses his face into it, and in the dark it’s almost enough to let him pretend he’s resting his head on someone’s chest. That the weight of the blanket across his shoulders is someone’s arm. That he’s not alone. 

The morning after their card game, Tyler walks into breakfast to find the room already buzzing with the news that the Black has fired their head coach. The assistant coach – Stevens – is taking over, for now, but the news is hinting that Lombardi has got somebody else in mind. Everyone’s face is glued to the TV, coffee held suspended in front of them. 

Except for Tyler. Tyler’s not looking at the TV at all. This is what it was, last night, he thinks. This was the tension that rent and quavered in the air. And Tyler is looking at Cliche. Because Cliche _knew_. 

 

 

In late December they play three games in four nights, all on the road, the last two in Providence. Providence puts them up in rows of cots in the lobby of the rink. The P-Bruins’ rink is right in the middle of downtown, and through the big, floor-to-ceiling windows, they can see the streets all lit up, people strolling along, kids running and sliding on icy stretches of the sidewalk. Coach Meyer crosses his arms over his chest and looks at them, and looks out at the games the kids are playing, and says, “Don’t get any ideas.” 

Providence isn’t all that big, really. Not compared to Scarborough, and definitely not compared to Toronto, but Pearson is pressed to the glass anyway. Normally, Tyler would have retreated to his cot by now, but because Pearson is there, Tyler has to be there too. 

Pearson isn’t saying anything, just watching the world outside. Tyler looks outside and tries to guess what’s caught his attention, but it’s hard to say. No one thing jumps out. It’s just people, and buildings, and a really light snow starting to fall. Pearson’s so close to the glass that his breath fogs it. Tyler watches him reach up and wipe the surface clear. 

Tyler clears his throat. And when that doesn’t draw his attention, “Pearson?” 

Pearson glances over at him and grins, just a little. “It’s really pretty, isn’t it?” 

Tyler looks back outside and shrugs. “Sure. I guess. If you like faux-Federal style architecture and half-dead maples.” 

The expression on Pearson’s face seems caught halfway between amusement and irritation. He reaches over and shoves Tyler’s shoulder. “Don’t be – don’t be – ” 

“What?” Tyler asks. 

“Weird,” Pearson says, sounding exasperated. 

Tyler frowns. “I’m not trying to be weird.” 

Pearson laughs, now all the way amused. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m getting that.” He shakes his head at Tyler, but he’s still grinning. “Well, then don’t harsh my enjoyment of faux – whatever.” He pauses, adds, “And don’t call me Pearson. Nobody calls me Pearson.” 

Pearson waits, but Tyler’s not entirely what he wants him to say. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Pears.” Pears is what most of the other guys call him. 

Pearson – _Pears_ – shakes his head again, mock serious. “Better.” Then he sighs, looks back over his shoulder at the rows of cots, most already occupied. “Come on, let’s turn in.” 

They’re some of the last ones up, just Soupy and Cliche still stand over by the windows. And just as Tyler turns around, Cliche slips something small and silver into his pocket, quick and sort of awkward, like he didn’t want Tyler to see. 

Tyler frowns. Pears tugs on his sleeve. “Come on,” he says, more firmly this time. “Let’s go.” 

When they’re stretched side-by-side in their narrowly racked cots, Tyler rolls over to look at him. “Pears?” He says, as soft as he can. The slightly guilty look on Cliche's face is so clear in his mind, and Pears was there, he must have seen. “Did you – ” 

Pears shushes him, his voice a harsh whisper in the dark. “Go to sleep, Tyler.” Clipped and short. 

He sounds irritated with Tyler, but that doesn’t make any sense. Tyler hasn’t done anything but ask a question. 

Tyler jumps at a light touch on his arm. Pearson has stretched across the space between their cots and he taps Tyler lightly, just above the wrist. His voice is much gentler. “Goodnight, Toff.” 

 

 

The last game of their road trip is really bad. Tyler might as well have filled his skates with cement, and everyone else is sleep-walking too. 

But somehow, Providence looks worse. 

Maybe it’s because he’s so tired, but it’s not until midway through the second that Tyler realizes Providence is playing with a short bench. They only have eleven forwards. Ryan Spooner, one of the Providence centers, got hurt last game, but Providence is playing at home. It’s weird that they wouldn’t dress someone else. 

Tyler thinks maybe Spooner thought he could play up until the last minute, and then couldn’t. But that seems far-fetched, because all the healthy scratches should already be at the rink. It would have to be a really, really, really last minute thing. So Tyler puts the question to Cliche, “Why is Providence playing with eleven forwards?” 

But Cliche just holds his mouth guard between his teeth and grinds his jaw back and forth and doesn’t answer. 

They win 3-2, but mostly Tyler is just glad the game is over. They’re going to shower, and then they’re going to eat something, and then they get to get on a bus and go home. It’s pretty amazing to think their compound outside Manchester could hold such a powerful allure, but tonight it does. Tyler showers quick – the hot water here is chancy – and pulls on his clothes. Out in the main part of the visitor’s dressing room, Coach Meyer and one of the trainers have laid out a big spread. It’s just sandwiches – bread and cheese and cold cuts, and chips, all packed and brought from home, but Tyler is starving. He walks toward it, but Cliche puts out a hand and stops him. 

At first Tyler thinks it’s a hierarchy thing. That Cliche is saying that Tyler has to wait because he and the rest of the vets get to eat first. But then Tyler glances around – and even the other vets are just milling around. No one is taking food. “We’re going to eat when we get back to Manch,” Cliche says. He keeps his voice low. But that hardly makes sense. It’s going to be really late by the time they get back to Manchester. And there’s all this food _right here._

Then Trent Whitfield walks in, and that’s really strange, because Trent Whitfield is the Captain of the P-Bruins. 

He’s got a big gym bag with him. He walks over to the food table and starts filling it up. Cliche leaves Tyler and walks over to him. He says something to Whitfield, but low enough that Tyler can’t hear. And then he starts helping Whitfield pack up all the food into his bag. 

Tyler looks around for the coaches, because surely they have something to say about this. But conspicuously, none of the coaching staff is here. 

The rest of the room is really quiet, the guys sitting or standing around, kind of really pointedly not looking at anything. When all the food is stowed, Cliche pats Whitfield on the arm. Whitfield nods, but he doesn’t look up. And he keeps his eyes down as he leaves. 

Tyler eyes the empty table and his stomach growls. It’s going to be a really long ride back to Manch. Cliche locks eyes with him, and Tyler starts to say, “I don’t understand – ” 

But Soupy interrupts. “What? You gonna tell Dean Lombardi on us, kid?” 

There’s a hard edge to Soupy’s voice. But, and this hits Tyler with an abrupt clarity, it’s a _nervous_ edge. Soupy really is afraid Tyler’s going to say something to Dean. And that’s when Tyler realizes that this is a secret. That it’s not a coincidence that none of the coaches are around. Either someone’s stalling them somewhere, or maybe they just knew not to come in. That there was going to be something they didn’t want to see. That this is something that only the players are supposed to know about. 

Soupy’s still eying him, really gruff and mean, but Tyler’s now certain it’s a nervous look. Soupy might even be a little scared. 

Soupy is drawing a line. He’s saying everyone in a uniform is supposed to be on one side of it. And even if he doesn’t like Tyler, that still puts Tyler on his side of the line. But he’s asking Tyler where he’s going to stand. 

Tyler’s heart rate jacks up. Everything feels slowed down, and he’s hyperaware: he can feel the air on his still-damp skin, and see the reflection of the lights in Soupy’s eyes, and he swallows, or tries to, with a throat gone suddenly dry. 

Because he doesn’t think like them, and he wasn’t raised like them, and it shows – it shows painfully every time he opens his mouth, or laughs at the wrong thing, or doesn’t get the joke at all – but here he is, wearing their uniform, wearing their tags, one of them for better or worse. 

It’s just a small thing – such a small thing – a tiny secret for the team to keep: _we took sandwiches meant for us, and gave them away_. But it’s like throwing a rock into a lake: there are ripples. And Tyler’s not stupid, he knows it’s not just sandwiches, and there are so very many things he doesn’t let himself think about, but it’s not even just _hockey._ It’s everything. They’re asking him to pick sides, and it’s _everything_. 

And it’s nothing, too. Scarborough really is behind him, and the tags around his neck are really real, and really – there’s no choice at all. “I wouldn’t tell Dean,” Tyler says, and he can see Soupy relax by inches. “Even if I had a way to, I wouldn’t.” But that’s not quite right, either, and even now he feels a duty. “But, I think that if someone was hungry, Dean wouldn’t mind us giving him food.” 

Soupy makes a face then – not smiling, and not frowning, and not something Tyler can even begin to read. “Maybe you’re right, kid,” he says. “Maybe you’re right.” 

 

 

The ride home is quiet, most everybody staring out the windows at the dark, or at the lights sailing by, or at their reflections caught in the glass. They roll into the compound pushing midnight, Tyler still twisted up in knots. He winds one hand into the steel of his PerT tag chain, grips, and holds on. 

Pearson sits next to him, his hands folded and motionless in his lap. His eyes are closed and his breathing is even, but he’s upright, shoulders held in such a way that tells Tyler he’s awake. 

Cliche and some of the other vets slip into the kitchen when they get back. They stumble around – most of them haven’t had to cook for months, but they do manage to throw together a meal. It’s just cold beans and toast – but they serve the rookies first. 

When it’s his turn, Tyler crams the food into his mouth, almost too tired to chew, and then he and Pears drag themselves to bed. Tyler stumbles over something in the dark, and Pears’ hands catch him. He steadies Tyler, and then lets go. 

Tyler strips for bed, but when he lies down, sleep doesn’t come. “Pears,” he says, but really soft, in case Pearson’s already asleep. 

“Yeah?” 

Tyler hesitates. “That was weird, right? It’s not just me?” 

A soft laugh floats out of the dark. “No. That was weird.” 

“They only had eleven healthy guys to play forward. And they needed food. Why did they need food?” 

Pears’ bunk creaks. “I don’t know.” 

“And how did Cliche know they needed food?” 

Pears hesitates this time. Tyler can hear his indrawn breath, and the sounds of him shifting. “I’m not supposed to tell you.” 

Tyler frowns up at the ceiling. “What do you mean?” 

Pears swallows, starts to say something and then stops. He finally sighs. “Some of the guys don’t trust you.” 

That stings. Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise, but it still hurts, still makes his throat go tight, and the dark starts to feel like a heavy weight pressing his chest. “Oh.” 

“It’s just – with your family having money, and you act like you have more in common with management than us.” Pears’ words spill out fast, embarrassed. “I mean, you call Mr. Lombardi _Dean_.” 

Tyler bites his lip, swallows around the tightness in his throat. “That’s his _name_.” He says, letting a little bitterness seep into his voice. 

“He’s the GM,” Pears answers. “No one calls him Dean. Not even Coach.” 

It’s not that Tyler hadn’t noticed that; it’s just he hasn’t really thought about it, hadn’t really thought about what it meant. “I’ve known him since I was a little kid,” he tells Pearson. “He’s friends with my dad. I’ve just always called him Dean.” 

“Your dad is friends with Dean Lombardi.” Pears gives a little laugh, voice tinted with disbelief. “Of course he is.” 

Pears certainly isn’t the first to give Tyler shit about his dad. But it feels strange here, lying in the dark, when his family’s someplace unknown, presumably far away. “My dad builds things,” Tyler says, and he was always proud of that, that his dad could conjure forth from nothing whole buildings, could re-make the landscape, create whole new places for people to live and work. “He owns a junior team, too, so they’re both in hockey. And he knows Dean from way, way back. From school.” Tyler stares up into the dark. “That’s… why I’m here. My parents needed to put me somewhere, and my dad knew Dean – so.” Tyler lets out a shaky breath. “And I don’t – I couldn’t even get ahold of him, or my parents, even if I wanted to – ” He has to stop. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm his breathing. 

“Toff?” 

“I just really miss them, you know?” He wipes at his face, trying not to make noise in the dark. “You must miss you family, right?” 

Pears stays quiet for a long moment, and then he laughs, a small, choked sound. “I don’t even know who my dad is. And all I know about my mom is that her name was Maureen, and that she was eighteen when she had me. She’s the one who named me – Tanner Thomas.” There’s another pause. “Pearson’s just the name of the street the hospital was on.” 

Tyler blinks up at the ceiling, startled into quiet. 

“I grew up at St. Mary’s Home for Boys,” Pears continues. His words are sharp and clipped, each one enunciated. 

Tyler looks over at him, the line of his profile just barely visible. “I didn’t know.” 

Pears flips a hand up at the ceiling, dismissive. “Yeah, well. You never asked.” 

“Was it – ” Tyler hesitates. “Do you – miss it? Did you like it?” 

Pears is motionless, quiet for so long Tyler thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep. Then he shakes his head, just once. “I worked really, really hard to get Drafted.” 

“Oh.” Tyler looks away, back up ceiling, at the dark, looming and thick. 

“Toff?” Pears sounds strangely hesitant. 

Tyler’s heart pounds in his chest, anxious. “Yeah?” 

Pears hesitates. “Never mind.” 

Tyler closes his eyes. 

“Toff?” 

Tyler opens his eyes again. Pears sounds too nervous for Tyler to even be annoyed at his reticence. “Yeah?” He glances over. 

Pears is looking back at him, eyes bright in the dark. “Cliche has a phone,” he says, almost too quiet for Tyler to hear. “He’s got it worked so he can text guys on other teams without the Union knowing.” 

Tyler’s mouth works, trying to think what to say. 

“You can’t tell anybody, okay?” 

Tyler nods. “Okay.” 

Pears is still watching him. He nods back, once, sharp, and turns over to go to sleep. 

 

 

His dad thought the Union communication policy _(General Order Governing Inter-Province Telephonic and Electronic Communication._ Signed into law 1999\. Amended 2003, 2004, and 2007 – Tyler had to write a paper) was stupid. Tyler knows this from the way his dad would get tight-lipped about it in mixed company, politely elide the conversation in public spheres. And Tyler had once heard his dad tell Dean, “It’s like they’re trying to incite a riot.” 

“Quell a riot, more like,” Dean said, and studied the lit end of his cigar. 

“Ens causa sui, no?” Peter Toffoli twirled his own cigar between his fingers. 

“Illegitimi non carborundum?” 

His dad swallowed a chuckle. “Hush. I don’t want you polluting my son’s Latin.” And then they both grinned down at Tyler. 

Tyler picks at his breakfast. _Carborundum_ , indeed. He chases the remaining bits of egg with his fork, until he finally gives up and puts it down. He shoves his plate away and draws his coffee in closer, cradling it with both hands. He didn’t sleep well, waking again and again from dreams filled with shapeless anxieties. He’d resigned himself to being awake and come down to the dining hall, early enough that it’s mostly just the rookies, finishing up their breakfast shift, and one or two scattered early birds. 

He watches Pears come out of the kitchen. Pears unties the apron he’s wearing and shrugs it off. He makes a plate for himself and comes to sit down across from Tyler. Pears mumbles a greeting, stabs a piece of egg, but then looks off into the middle distance, seeming too tired to focus on eating. Tyler waves a hand in front of his face, and Pears gathers himself, shoots Tyler a quick, exhausted grin, and starts to eat. 

Tyler studies his profile in light of last night’s revelations. Which said a lot, however brief they were. Pears is happy to be here. Pears is grateful to be here, even. Which, Tyler considers, means that wherever he came from must have been worse. Up until recently, Tyler had assumed that Manchester was just about the worst place in the entire world. But maybe that was short-sighted of him. Maybe it’s not. 

His parents’ house was – is, assuming it still stands – on a hill, with a view of the lake to one side, and the neighborhood sweeping down into the city on the other. It was beautiful and comfortable. Tyler was aware this level of comfort was not tendered to everyone, but the lives at the bottom of the hill, at the public rink, had not seemed so vastly different. They hadn’t seemed awful. They all skated. They all complained about school work. They were not, as far as Tyler knows, desperately hungry or cold. 

But Tyler is frozen by the idea that the world stretches on farther even than that. 

Wayne once said he took two buses to get to the rink, and Tyler hadn’t thought – he hadn't thought anything. 

Now there’s a sense of unfolding. The sense, once again, that things are larger than they were a day ago, and the map of his world is stretched, and filled with yawning, dark, unlabeled spaces. 

The idea that wherever Pearson lived before Manchester was worse than this, was bad, makes Tyler deeply uncomfortable. Why Pearson and not Tyler? And because if Pears was indeed a ward of the state, that’s not supposed to happen. That was the whole basis of the Union – everyone is watched, and thus everyone is watched out for. Everyone is taken care of. Otherwise, what was the point? 

But, also Pears is – he’s really, actually pretty decent. He’s good at hockey, and he watches out for the other rookies, and he works really hard, and he’s – _lovely,_ Tyler’s brain tries to add. Which, god. Tyler can’t even think that without being embarrassed. But the idea that Pears should be unhappy is – 

unsettling. 

Tyler wants it not to be true. Tyler wants to erase it. At the very least, Tyler wants to somehow be able to make up for it. 

Tyler knows that’s ridiculous. And he knows he’s _being_ ridiculous when he gets up and makes a second cup of coffee, and adds milk to it, because that’s how Pearson likes it. 

Pears looks up when Tyler sets it in front of him, surprised. 

“You look tired,” Tyler says. 

Pears smiles. “Thanks.” 

The rest of the team is filtering in now. Tyler watches them – nods good morning to Wealer and Vey and exchanges ritual glares with Kozun. But mostly, he watches Cliche. 

Because that’s the other half of what was keeping him up, isn’t it? Cliche has a phone. Cliche has figured out a way around the Union’s stupid law – and Pearson knows about it. So Soupy _must_ know about it, and by inference, Tyler figures that must mean at least Joner and Vey do too, since they’re all so tight. Maybe everybody knows. Maybe he’s the last to know. His gaze flicks over to Coach Meyer. Coach Meyer – who of any of the staff is around them the most, and who conveniently wasn’t around for Cliche's food exchange. Meyer probably knows. Tyler thinks about this further. Meyer, but probably not Morris. Morris wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t like distractions. 

Tyler drums his fingers across the side of his mug. 

So the Monarchs can talk to the P-Bruins. And, presumably, other teams as well. Maybe each team has a phone. Maybe not just the AHL. Tyler sits up a little straighter. Maybe they can talk to the Black. Or even – not just hockey teams. Maybe Cliche can talk to anyone. 

Cliche sits two tables away from Tyler. He stirs his oatmeal listlessly. He nods every so often, presumably in response to whatever Bishop and Soupy are talking about just across from him. 

But all that begs the question: does Dean know? Dean must know. Tyler can’t imagine a universe where Dean doesn’t know. But Tyler also can’t imagine a universe where his dad can’t somehow get ahold of a phone – he has access to a hundred times the resources Cliche does. And if his dad has a phone, and Dean knows about the phones – then that means Dean is talking to Tyler’s father. And not telling him about it. 

Tyler chews his lip. The only other possibility is that his parents are somehow so isolated, so incapacitated as to not have access to one of these magic phones for any price. He frowns and pushes that thought away. But if he could talk to Dean, he could find out. Which means he needs Cliche’s phone. Which means he needs Cliche to trust him. 

Two tables over, Cliche rubs a hand across his balding head, presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose as though chasing a headache. Tyler watches him give up on his oatmeal and stand. He carries his bowl over towards the collection basin at the back of the room. 

Tyler follows him. 

He gets close before Cliche even notices him. Cliche blinks at him, the bland, unfocused look of someone not quite fully awake. Tyler clears his throat. “Can I talk to you?” 

Cliche looks confused for a second, but then he shrugs. “Sure, Toffoli. What’s up?” 

Tyler looks around. Everyone’s attention is down on the paper, or focused on the TV in front of them. No one’s paying attention to Tyler or Cliche at the back of the room. “My parents,” Tyler says, and stops. He takes a breath and starts again. “We had to leave Toronto because of something my dad did. Something that made the Union angry.” 

Cliche is frowning at him now, his gaze gone sharp and his mouth working like he can’t quite find the appropriate response. 

Tyler presses on. “I just wanted to tell you. I know you think I’m pro-Union because of my family. But I’m not, we’re not – ” 

“Toffoli – ” There’s a buzz building somewhere near the front of the room. Someone calls out to Cliche, but Cliche ignores them, urgency seeping into his words. “What do you mean ‘made them angry’?” 

Tyler shrugs. “I don’t know. I just know we had to leave.” 

Cliche frowns harder. He puts a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. 

“Marc!” Soupy calls again from the front of the room, voice sharp. 

This time Cliche looks up, and Tyler follows his gaze. A crowd has gathered around the TV. 

Cliche looks torn. He glances back at Tyler, gives his shoulder a light shake. “We’ll talk more about this later, okay? Not here.” 

“But – ” 

“Later,” Cliche says again and walks away. 

Tyler frowns. He can see pieces of the screen in the spaces between where guys are standing. He cranes his head, trying to see what’s being displayed. He can see part of a face, and – that’s Jeff Carter. The news is showing Jeff Carter’s headshot and his stats. Tyler goes to stand by Pearson and Vey. 

“They traded for Carter,” Vey says, under his breath. “Jeff Carter’s on the Black.” 

Pearson looks back and forth between Vey and Tyler, a wide-eyed sort of look. “Is this a big deal?” 

“Yeah, it’s, uh – ” Veysey breaks off, eyes still glued to the screen that’s now showing a running highlight reel. “It’s a big deal.” 

Pearson looks from Vey back to Tyler. “It means they’re going for it,” Tyler says, trying to draw his mind back to hockey and away from phones and politics and everything else. He pitches his voice low, so they don’t get yelled at. “It means Dean thinks they can make a run.” 

Pearson frowns at him. “That’s a good thing, right? They make a deep playoff run, there’s a good chance you’ll get called up.” He hesitates. “Right?” 

“Yeah,” Tyler says, still distracted. “Maybe.” He looks at Pearson, but there’s no malice in Pearson’s face, just honest curiosity. “I don’t really know, but maybe.” 

They ask Coach Meyer about him, but Meyer just shakes his head and says, “Typical Stevens, collecting all his kids.” 

 

 

Tyler’s world feels cracked open at the edges, like light spilling in from under a door he thought was only another piece of wall. There’s something more out there. But it’s like trying to glimpse a fish in dark water – Tyler can only see the shape of it, or its after effects: water churned and white. 

The day Jeff Carter is traded to the Black, Cliche ducks Tyler after breakfast. Then they’re funneled to game-day skate, and from the skate to the bus, and from the bus to the rink, and there’s no time to talk to Cliche at all. At the border crossing into the Blue & Red, Tyler gets stuck staring at the Union patch on the soldier’s jacket, at the gun on his hip. What would happen if he said something? Would they arrest him? Would they arrest Cliche? Would they take him away? 

What does it mean if Tyler doesn’t say something? Does it mean anything at all? 

Where is Dean. And where is his father. And why aren’t they here. And why isn’t there anyone Tyler can ask any of these questions of. 

It’s impossible to focus on hockey. 

He holds out his tag for the card reader without saying a word. The soldier motions him through. 

They lose to Portland. 

It’s a messy, grinding sort of loss where nothing seems to go their way. Pucks bounce at odd angles. Tyler breaks his stick on what should have been a goal. Joner misses pucks that 99 times out of 100 would have been saves. It hardly matters: they’re coasting into a playoff spot at this point anyway, but it still makes everyone sour. 

Tyler sits next to Pearson on the bus. Pearson slumps in his seat, one leg stretched into the aisle, one folded in front of him. His shoulder presses against Tyler’s side. “Who do you think Carter will play with?” 

Tyler looks over. Pearson is looking up at him through his lashes in a way that makes him seem younger than he is. He smells like cotton and soap. Tyler tells himself not to notice. “Richards. That’s the whole point of getting him.” That’s how Dean thinks. Put people in positions to succeed. Reward effort. Repeat things that worked. That has to be what he’s doing. What Tyler doesn’t know, is if this means Dean’s thinking about hockey. In this brave new world where something is lurking just under the surface of the water, is Dean really thinking about winning hockey games? Tyler frowns, and beside him Pears lapses back into silence. 

Tyler gets distracted studying the line of his jaw and the shell of his ear and – 

_Jesus_ . Tyler turns to look out the window instead. Clearly, Tyler needs to find five minutes and get himself off so he can stop leering at the person who sleeps two feet away from him. He shuts his eyes. 

He heads straight back to their room when they arrive back at the compound. If Pearson lingers to talk to Joner and the other guys, he could have ten minutes or so of privacy. That would be plenty. 

But Tyler doesn’t have time for any of that. He’s barely hooked his thumbs under his shirt when Pears lets himself into the room. He reaches out and catches Tyler’s arm. “Don’t undress.” 

Tyler’s thoughts were already firmly entrenched along a certain path. And even if Pears has no way to know what he was thinking, he still blushes. Has to blink and refocus. “Uh, why not?” 

“Cliche and Joner and some of the guys, we’re all going to hang out.” 

Tyler hesitates. 

“C’mon, Toffy,” Pearson says. He reaches out to tug Tyler’s sleeve. “Cliche told me to bring you.” 

 

 

Pears leads him out the door, and after checking to make sure all the lights in the staff quarters are still off, across the quad and through the dark down to the practice rink. He walks through the locker room to the players’ lounge, glancing back once or twice to make sure Tyler is still behind him. 

Cliche and Soupy, Joner and Vey sit clustered around a table. They glance up when Pears and Tyler walk in. Soupy and Vey narrow their eyes at the sight of Tyler. Joner frowns, and his gaze darts from Tyler to Pears. 

“It’s fine, he’s fine,” Pears says. He sounds nervous. He grins, but it’s an uncertain, flickering expression. He pushes Tyler towards the empty couch. 

Soupy and the others look to Cliche. Cliche just pulls two more mugs down from the counter behind him, and pours from a bottle placed at the center of the table. He raises his glass towards both of them, still silent. 

Tyler toasts him back. His drink burns going down, tastes rough like the cheap whiskey the guys at the rink back in Scarborough had sometimes nursed after practice before heading out into the cold. It’s the first alcohol he’s had in a year and it shoots through him; he can feel a flush rising in his cheeks. 

“I thought he’d spit it back out,” Joner says, dry, and still looking at Pearson. “I guess I owe you a dollar.” 

Pears still has that nervous smile. He shrugs. 

Tyler’s not sure what to expect. He waits for some grand pronouncement of why they’re here, or what this is about, but Cliche just sighs. He looks down into his mug, swirling its contents. “Shit, I guess really the first round oughta be in honor of Joner.” He looks up and tips his mug towards him. 

Joner got lit up for five tonight, before getting pulled. He scowls at Cliche. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Cliche laughs. He wags a finger at Tyler and Pears. “Hear that? That’s what you want – never trust a goalie who takes his losses lying down.” They drain their mugs in honor of Joner, and Cliche pours again. 

“Shit,” Joner says. “You ain’t seen nothing. Compared to Jonathan Quick, I’m cool as a cucumber.” 

Cliche grins. “Quickie’s short tempered is he?” 

“He gets pissed getting scored on in practice.” 

“Oh, come on, Jonsey,” Vey says. “So do you.” 

Joner lifts an eyebrow. “I guess.” He turns back to Cliche. “How are things?” 

Cliche's eyes flick over to Tyler and then away again, quick. “Fine, I guess. They won.” He hesitates, rolling the mug between his hands. “Nolly says Carter’s weird.” 

Soupy frowns. “What’s ‘weird’ mean?” 

“Played okay. Apparently spent every moment he wasn’t on the ice locked in his room.” 

“He play with Richards?” Soupy fills everyone’s mug again, even Tyler’s. 

Cliche snorts. “Of course.” 

“Well,” Soupy says. It’s hard to tell what he makes of that. “Well.” 

The alcohol makes Tyler flushed and too warm. His tongue loose inside his head. “Who can you talk to?” 

The conversation pauses. Soupy looks at him, and then at Cliche. 

Cliche shrugs. “Hockey players,” he says carefully. “It’s a players’ network.” 

“Oh.” Tyler frowns. “Who – ” 

“Toffoli.” Cliche leans forward and raps the table with his knuckles. He looks at Tyler, intent. “There are some things it’s better for you not to know.” 

_Some things it’s better for you not to know._ The world seems suddenly vast, a million new possibilities, a million new imperfections in Tyler’s understanding of how things work. There’s a network – and that means there’s organization – and that means – 

Pears laughs, loose, a little sloppy. He leans his head against Tyler’s shoulder, the heat of it distracting. His eyes are closed. “Toffy knows everything,” He says. He’s smiling against Tyler’s arm. His hand, resting on the couch, is very close to Tyler’s leg. 

Tyler’s too warm, and when he looks over, he can see Pears’ lips, a tiny bit parted and shiny, his long eyelashes resting against his cheek. And he can smell his hair. 

Tyler looks away, thoughts entirely derailed. He takes a breath. He need to – to not. 

Soupy laughs. “Hey, rookie – you look like you’re falling asleep.” 

Pears grins without opening his eyes, without moving his head off Tyler’s shoulder. “I’m not asleep,” he mumbles. “I’m not tired.” 

“Sure you’re not.” Cliche shakes his head. “Tytoff, take this lightweight to bed, wouldya?” 

Tyler looks up quickly. They haven’t talked about _anything._ “But – ” 

“Go on,” Cliche says, voice more firm. 

“I’m not a lightweight,” Pears says, but he doesn’t argue when Tyler slips an arm around his shoulders, and leads him back to the dorms. He’s a warm, solid weight against Tyler’s side, the whole way back. 

Tyler strips and climbs into bed. He listens to the sounds of Pears kicking off his shoes and settling into his own bed. Tyler pulls the covers up to his chin. He closes his eyes, but all the heat from the whiskey is settling into his groin, a pressure so intense it’s almost an ache. The whiskey erases all his self-discipline, and he’s too loose, too needy to keep his mind from wandering, to keep it from painting lurid images of bodies, of the planes and shadows of muscle, of a tongue moving over lips, of hands moving over him. 

Tyler squeezes his eyes shut and strains in the dark for the sounds that will prove Pears is asleep. He runs a hand across the front of his shorts, and waits. 

He waits until he can hear the sounds of Pearson’s breathing evening, and the sounds of gentle snoring next to him. He slips his hand down and inside his shorts. He teases himself, he imagines what it would feel like if it were someone else’s hand, how it would be different if it were the warm, wet heat of someone’s mouth. He works his shorts partway down his hips, and even the elastic feels good against him, just the right kind of the rough. He can run his hand lower, and his balls feel heavy, and full, and tight. He can hear himself breathing; he bites down on his lip. 

Pearson turns over. 

Tyler freezes. 

“You’re making noises.” 

Tyler can feel himself blushing, so intensely red he’s probably glowing in the dark, even if Pears can’t know what he was thinking about. Tyler swallows, has to try a couple times to speak. “Sorry.” 

“Well, go on.” Pears’ says, in the thick voice of someone still mostly asleep. “Finish.” 

That’s not going to happen. Not when Tyler feels like he could actually die of embarrassment. Not with Pears listening. “Well, I can’t now.” 

“You can’t – ” Pears breaks off. There’s a beat of stillness, and then Pears, or at least the shape of him, looms out of the darkness. He’s suddenly really close, right at Tyler’s side. He reaches down, and there’s some brief fumbling, before he pushes Tyler’s hand out of the way, and replaces it with his own. 

Tyler can hear him breathing in the dark. 

He touches Tyler, tight grip sliding, and it’s – 

Tyler moans, desperate. Loud. 

Pears stops. He grabs one of Tyler’s hands, brings it up, presses it to Tyler’s mouth. 

No one’s ever done this. No one’s ever touched him, and there’s panic all under his skin, and at the edge of every breath. But Tyler’s too surprised to move, too surprised to object or process or do anything other than press his hand hard to his mouth and try to swallow the sounds. Pears jerks him off – rough and relentless. Tyler’s free hand reaches out, looking for something to grip, and he finds Pears’ other arm. His fingers slide up and down, mindlessly miming the motion. He needs simultaneously for this to be over – for the ache of it be relieved – and for Pears to never, ever stop. 

But it’s over really fast. Tyler’s grip tightens on Pearson’s arm when he comes, hips moving of their own accord and a low moan forced out of him, sound leaking out between his fingers. 

Tyler’s grip on him goes slack, and Pears pulls away quick. Sudden enough to startle Tyler, and Tyler swallows and opens his eyes. But before Tyler has even caught his breath, Pears is already moving awa, already climbing back into his own bed. 

Tyler swallows again. He wipes the worst of the mess away and rolls over onto his stomach. He feels flushed, head to toe, sleepy and a little bit slow. Tyler blinks down at his pillow. What was that – and what does that mean, and – is Tyler supposed to do something now? What’s the least embarrassing way to say, “No one’s ever done that to me before, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say now”? 

Tyler glances over at him. “Pears?” It comes out sort of squeaky and unsure. 

Pears is lying on his side, his back a rigid line facing Tyler. Tyler can hear his breathing, a little bit rough. “That didn’t happen,” he says. And his voice doesn’t sound very even, either, but it is cold. 

Tyler freezes, waiting. But Pearson stays silent. He keeps his back to Tyler. 

 

 

Tyler wakes early enough for it to still be dark. He looks over at the bed next to him, but it’s empty, covers rucked and shoved into a pile, as messy as ever. Tyler lets his head fall back against his pillow; he rolls onto his back and watches the darkness on the ceiling fade. Light enters the room, fragile and gray. 

There’s still a stain on his sheets. Tangible proof that he didn’t dream the whole thing. He thinks about the way Pears’ hand had moved over him. He thinks about how desperate he’d felt, emptied of everything but the need to be touched, and the way his whole body had pressed up into Pears’. He blushes. 

But Pears had pulled away right after, and his voice had been like a door slamming shut. Tyler’s chest goes tight, wondering if there was something he was supposed to do or not do, to say or not say, something that would have made Pears sound different. 

He watches the square of light the sun makes crawl, slow and inevitable, across the wall. 

Outside the door, he can hear the team starting to wake up. He hears footsteps, first many, and then few, as the guys leave for breakfast, and the stragglers follow. If they had morning skate today, someone would have already come in and dragged him out. But they don’t today. They’re resting today; the only thing they have is video in the afternoon. 

Tyler turns over and looks at Pearson’s empty bed. 

Just once, Tyler would like the universe to make sense. 

After it’s been quiet for a while, Tyler gets up and strips his sheets. He dumps them in the laundry room, and heads to the showers, rinsing away all remaining evidence of last night. Tyler turns off the water and closes his eyes. Right. If only it were actually that easy. 

He skips breakfast, more anxious than hungry, and successfully manages to avoid having to deal with anyone until lunch. 

“There you are,” Wealer says, when Tyler walks up to the table. He kicks a chair towards Tyler. 

Tyler sets his tray down. He gives Wealer a guilty smile. “Hey.” Vey and Miller nod at him. Pearson’s there, but he’s got his head down, and he doesn’t look up. Which, okay, maybe Pearson feels weird about things too. 

Tyler steals glances at him. He tries not to stare, but his food makes it from tray to mouth unseen and untasted. Maybe Pearson’s worried Tyler’s going to tell people. Or that Tyler’s going to make a big deal about it. Last night, his hand had seemed steady and sure, but Pears has a good game face – so. 

Or maybe he’s worried Tyler’s going to think that he’s – Tyler’s not even sure he has the words for it – that he’s _like Tyler_ in this one particular way. 

Which, Tyler wouldn’t do any of things. And he doesn’t. Think that. Pearson seems normal. People like Pearson. 

But Pears’ keeps his head down, and he doesn’t say anything. And Tyler can’t get a read on him at all. When Tyler goes up to grab one of the apples that’s on offer for dessert, he grabs one for Pears too, to say, _no worries, we’re cool._ And when it’s time for video, he sits next to Pears, because that’s normal for them. _See?_ He wants to say. _Everything’s just the same._

Except Pears doesn’t touch the apple, and he doesn’t say anything in response to Tyler’s muttered comments during video, won’t even look at him, although he seems perfectly happy to talk to Vey, sitting on his other side. 

None of this makes any sense. And Tyler can’t help but feel like this is some kind of test – one that he’s failing. This is just like shoveling snow, or washing dishes – something that everyone else just knows how to do without ever being told. Something no one’s ever bothered to explain to Tyler, because it’s something he’s already supposed to know. 

Okay, but really, this isn’t like washing dishes at all. This can’t possibly be something that everyone knows. And it’s not fair of Pears to expect him to know what to do. It’s not fair for him to just ignore Tyler, like he’s not even there. Tyler calls out to him on the walk back to the dorms, but Pears ignores him. “Pears,” he tries again. “Tanner.” 

Pears stops. He turns around, exasperated look on his face. “What do you want?” 

His tone is so sharp Tyler’s caught off guard. “I just. I thought – ” Pearson’s glaring at him, so dark and angry that Tyler stumbles, has to shift course. “Are you mad at me?” Tyler stops – because that’s not fair either. Pears was the one who crossed the room. Pears was the one who touched him. Tyler didn’t do anything. Tyler never asked for anything. And Tyler’s not the one making this awkward. He frowns. “I’m not – why are you – ” 

If anything, Pearson looks even angrier. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to be around you,” he says, in that same cold tone. He shakes his head. “Faggot.” 

And that is how they go into playoffs. 

 

 

The Monarchs roll in as the top seed in their Division. That doesn’t stop Norfolk from kicking their ass all over the ice. 

They drop the first game – Tyler gets shoved around for sixty straight minutes, like Norfolk’s taking particular pleasure in shutting him down. They scrape out an OT win in Game 2, thanks to Joner, who looks personally offended by every shot on net. But now the clock is ticking down on Game 3, and unless they find a way to score three goals real quick, Norfolk’s going to have a 2-1 lead in the series. 

Tyler gets the puck from Muzz at center ice. One of Norfolk’s D is hanging too low, one of their forwards is slow off the change, and there’s a gap. Tyler carries it in, and he can see Pearson set up net front. For one second, everything’s perfect – he _knows_ this is going to be a goal. The pass goes tape to tape – the goalie blocks Pears’ first shot, but that’s fine, that’s perfect, because he’s gonna give up a sweet rebound, and Tyler’s sliding into place, Tyler’s gonna be right – 

Tyler blinks. It takes him half a beat to realize he’s looking up. Looking at the rink’s ceiling. His head’s reverberating like a struck gong. Sound filters back in slow and delayed – the scrape of skates and the distant roar of the crowd, and the slap of the puck going back up ice, but no whistle – 

No whistle. Tyler flips over, scrambling to his feet. Play’s alive. The world swims around him for a second, he almost drops his stick, and then – there it is. The whistle screams from up ice. Tyler stops skating, sags in relief, hands resting on knees. Tyler sees sticks and gloves on the ice first, and only then does he see Pearson and the Norfolk winger, clutching hold of each other, trading blows. 

 

 

The trainer he ignored during the game grabs him again right after, half-drags him into the trainer’s room. “Sit. How’s your head?” 

Tyler hops to sit on the edge of the table. Pearson is sitting on the next table, bag of ice strapped to one hand. Tyler eyes him, but Pearson doesn’t look his way. “Fine,” Tyler says. 

The trainer shines a small flashlight in both his eyes, asks Tyler to follow his finger. “Neck?” 

“Fine.” Pearson hasn’t even looked up. Tyler looks back at the trainer. “I’m _fine_.” 

“Teeth?” 

Tyler runs his tongue along his teeth. No new damage. “They’re fine too.” 

“Your ears ring after you got hit?” 

Tyler hesitates. “No.” 

The trainer frowns at him. 

“I’m fine,” Tyler says again, trying to sound convincing. “Really.” 

The trainer stares at him. “I don’t know why I bother,” he says. “Fine. You can go.” He glances over his shoulder at Pearson. “You stay put, when I come back, we’re getting a picture of your hand.” He leaves. 

Tyler hops down. He looks at Pearson. 

Pearson’s frowning at him. “I didn’t do it because it was you.” 

“Okay.” 

“I didn’t. I had to. Someone had to.” 

“Okay,” Tyler repeats. “I get it.” 

Pearson looks away. 

 

 

Tyler undresses, changes, and rides the bus with perfectly rote, mindless motions. Pearson is by his side as always, silent but still grating, like sandpaper against an open wound. He ignores Tyler completely, not a single glance, not a single word. On the bus, he sits with his eyes forward, alone in some private world. 

That night, Tyler burrows down into his blankets, pulls them up so he couldn’t see out even if he tried. He wraps his arms around himself, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, and shivers even though it’s been mild out. His thoughts flip past too fast for any one to take hold, spinning by him, a top sent teetering. He hasn’t scored in the last three games. He isn’t playing well. He was so stupid to let that happen with Pearson. And whatever he was supposed to do after that he didn’t do, or did that he wasn’t supposed to, he was stupid for that too. 

Tyler’s throat gets really tight thinking about it, something heavy pressing on his chest. 

He didn’t think Pearson was – he never thought there was anything more to it. They weren’t ever close. But. It would be nice if Pearson didn’t hate him. It would be nice if Pearson liked him, at least a little. If he wanted to be Tyler’s friend. For someone on this team to want that. 

If his dad were here, or Dean, or maybe even Wayne, he’d have someone he could talk to. Tyler could say, “I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand what I did wrong. I don’t get it.” 

But there’s no one like that here. There’s no one Tyler can talk to about any of this. There’s never going to be anyone to talk to about this, and he’s fooling himself to think otherwise. 

Tyler presses his face into his pillow. 

And they’re _losing –_ if they lose one more, they’re done. Everyone slinks around the compound, touchy and short-tempered. Tyler is not scoring, and it’s his fucking _job_ to score goals and he’s not and everyone knows it. Everyone stares at him in the room, and he _knows_ what they’re thinking: he needs to do something. He’s not doing enough. He’s falling short. He’s failing. 

His chest is so tight it’s hard to breathe. He can sort of hear Pearson moving in the room, and Tyler tries desperately not to make any noise. Not that Pearson would give him shit for crying; he’d have to acknowledge Tyler for that. Tyler curls, drawing his knees up towards his chest, tucking his hands into his sleeves. The room feels tight and airless. He closes his eyes. He waits for sleep. 

 

 

That morning, for the third morning in a row, Tyler can’t keep anything down, his stomach too sour for food. He grips his coffee mug, more for the heat than anything, and so his hands won’t shake. 

They load up for the game that afternoon, but the sight of the bus makes him feel sick. It seems to loom, huge and wobbly in front of him, and when it’s time to board, his heart jackhammers inside his chest, his vision tunnels, and Tyler – can’t. 

“I can’t,” he says, not to anyone in particular. His feet are rooted to the spot, just short of the bus. Wealer and a couple of the others stop and look at him. He shakes his head. “I can’t. I really can’t – ” His voice sounds thready, panicked. 

Cliche grabs him by the shoulders, right up in his face. “Toffoli?” he says. “Tyler?” 

Tyler shakes his head, his fingers clutch at Cliche, wordless, desperate. 

Cliche drops a heavy arm across his shoulders, pulls Tyler tight against him, and walks away from the bus. That’s fine. Tyler’s feet will move for that, his legs will work that direction. “I can’t play,” Tyler says. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

Tyler’s mouth works. He shakes his head. He can’t get enough air, can get only panicked, gasping little sips. 

“Tyler. Breathe.” Cliche is close enough for Tyler to smell sweat and detergent and cotton. His hands tighten on Tyler’s arms, hard enough to hurt. 

Tyler sucks in one long, shaky breath. 

“You got it. There you go.” Cliche waits while Tyler manages another. 

Tyler shakes his head again. “I can’t go, Cliche.” 

“Tell me why not. C’mon, tell me.” 

“Everything’s – ” Tyler closes his eyes; he can feel tears pricking at the corners. “Fucked up. Everything’s all fucked up.” 

“Every game’s a clean slate, Tyler. Every shift’s the first shift. Right?” Cliche waits. 

“It’s _everything_ – it’s not just hockey – it’s everything, and it’s all – ” He grabs at Cliche’s shirt again. His heart flutters in his chest. It _is_ everything – this place and this team and Pearson and his family and Tyler not scoring and being _stuck_ here, all by himself – 

“Tyler.” Cliche shakes him a little. 

Tyler tries to breathe. 

“You’ve done this for 79 games, and you’ve done well. You can do it this time.” 

“It’s not just – ” 

“I know,” Cliche says. “I know, but you can only worry about the things you can control. Otherwise you’re gonna drive yourself nuts.” 

There’s a whining sound that wants to claw its way out of Tyler’s throat. Tyler’s crying. Tyler’s crying in front of his Captain, a whole new level of humiliation – 

“Breathe, Tyler. You can do one more. It’s just one hockey game, right?” 

One more hockey game. The lack of choice is almost a comfort. No way to go but forward. Tyler loosens his grip on Cliche and takes another breath. The black spots at the periphery of his vision are starting to fade. Tyler nods. 

“Attaboy. C’mon, you’re okay.” 

Cliche gets it right though. There is only one more game. They don’t win. 

 

 

They’re done. 

Muzz, Joner, and Nolan all get called up to skate as black aces, which is pretty much the bare minimum of bodies Dean could possibly bring out to the Black. Tyler does not get called up, nor do Morris or Meyer offer any word of explanation. 

Coach Morris does their exit interviews, because obviously Dean can’t fly back in the middle of playoffs. Dean, who doesn’t think Tyler is good enough to play for the Black, who doesn’t think Tyler is good enough to even skate as a possible substitute on the Black, is _much_ too busy for that. Tyler lies awake at night, making lists in his head of what else he could possibly have done to show Dean he’s good enough. He spends aching, sleepless nights running over every bad play, every missed pass, every unblocked shot, until he’s all hollowed out, like there’s nothing left, like all his guts and insides have been replaced with icy water. 

Fighting with Pearson. Going on a cold streak during playoffs. Getting his team eliminated in the first round – that probably didn’t help. 

Tyler is alone, stuck in Manchester – Dean too busy to send him one single, conciliatory word, his parents are god knows where, he’s a _faggot_ , and now he’s not even good at hockey. Tyler closes his eyes. 

Pearson approaches him just once. Stands, with a tray of food in his hand and honest curiosity on his face. “Why didn’t you get called up?” 

Tyler looks away. Throat too tight to give him any real answer, he shrugs. 

“Seriously, why?” 

It hurts. It hurts to think about. “I don’t know, okay? Because I’m not good enough.” 

The why of it doesn’t really matter. All that really matters is that Dean has his reasons, and he doesn’t have to tell Tyler shit. 

Pearson’s looking at him, his gaze narrowed and skeptical, and his mouth pursed like he hasn’t decided if he really wants to voice what he’s about to say. He shakes his head. “You’re the best guy on the team.” 

Tyler blinks down at his hand. Maybe it should make him feel better, but Pearson says it like it’s not a compliment at all, like it’s a riddle he can’t figure out the how or why of. 

“It’s not even _close._ It doesn’t make sense.” 

And if anything, hearing it from Pearson makes him feel worse. Tyler’s control is slipping, his throat closing. “Please leave me alone,” he says. “Please.” 

 

 

The vets, the ones who live in-Province anyway, get to go home. 

Everyone stands in the quad to see them off, and Tyler goes too. He hovers near the bus that’s going to take them from the compound into Manchester proper, watching Cliche throw his things into the storage compartment. When he finishes, Cliche comes round to start shaking hands. When he gets to Tyler, he puts both of his hands on Tyler’s shoulders, and he stares at Tyler’s face for a really long time. Looking back into those dark brown eyes, Tyler swallows. 

“I know the season didn’t end like you wanted it to,” Cliche says. 

Tyler shrugs. 

“No, fuck that. I know – I know a lot of things didn’t go like you wanted them to this year, Toff.” Cliche looks at him, really intent. “And, I know it’s been hard. Listen, it’s – ” He starts to say something like _it’s gonna get easier,_ or, _it’s gonna get better,_ but he stops. And he just looks at Tyler, and that’s okay, because Tyler would really rather not be lied to. 

Cliche shrugs and steps back. He stands near the bus, looking at the steps leading inside like they’re something completely foreign. 

“C’mon, Cap,” Soupy calls from the bus’ stairwell. 

Cliche looks around like it’s actually paining him to leave this place. He looks at each of them: the rookies, and the young guys, and the remaining few who don’t have anywhere to go. He swallows, and just for a second, it looks like Cliche is gonna cry. 

Something prickles over Tyler’s skin, seeps into his dulled awareness of the world. Because Cliche’s not looking at them like he’s going to see them again in three months. His gaze lingers over each of their faces like he’s never going to see them again. “Andrew,” he says. He shakes his head. 

Soupy hops down from the bus and walks over to him. “They’re gonna be fine,” Soupy says. “Stuck up here in the middle of the woods? Last place there’d be any trouble.” 

Cliche nods at them, sort of blankly. “I wish I could do more for you guys,” he tells them. “I wish I coulda done a lot of things better for you guys.” He pauses. He looks at each of them, one final time. “Good luck.” Then he gets on the bus with Soupy. And then they’re gone. 

 

 

Coach Morris and most of the staff leave, too. Until it’s just Coach Meyer watching over them. 

As soon as Coach Morris leaves, Pearson moves back out of the Captain’s room. 

It’s a relief. It gives Tyler a lot of time alone. The motley assortment of those left mostly leave him to his own devices, although Wealer will sometimes seek him out. “C’mon, Toff. Let’s get some shinny going” or “Let’s go for a run” or even once, awkwardly, “Hey man, what’s up with you? Are you alright?” 

Tyler shrugs, and Wealer frowns at him. Wealer has dark eyes, hair that’s almost black and starting to curl because he’s letting it get long. Wealer looks worried, and he punches lightly at Tyler’s shoulder. “Toff, c’mon. There’s always next season.” 

He could say to Wealer. “Dean doesn’t want me on his team,” and Wealer would get it. Or get some of why that drives Tyler crazy. He could maybe even say, “I miss my parents. I don’t know where they are, or when they’re coming back,” and Wealer wouldn’t really get the why of that, but he’d get that Tyler was sad. At the heart of it, though, is the one Tyler can’t say, which is, “I am always, always, always going to be alone.” 

But fuck Wealer. Fuck all of them. Tyler doesn’t even like them, so why the fuck should Tyler feel sad that he’s never going to fit in? Why should Tyler want to confide anything to any one of them? They’re horrible and stupid and cruel and – that gives Tyler a spark of anger. He holds onto that. That ember is about a million times better than the black morass he’s been wallowing in. 

Tyler only has a week to fume and hide away, though, because after a week Coach Meyer starts posting workout routines on the whiteboard. There are no formal on-ice sessions, but he puts up lists of “suggested” exercises. 

Tyler works out, more out of habit than anything else and skates when he feels like it. It feels good to get his blood moving, and he lets Wealer talk him into the occasional three-on-three. Wealer bumps his shoulder against Tyler’s. 

Tyler’s been sulking. Tyler’s been an asshole. Tyler sighs and bumps Wealer back. 

Wealer grins. 

As far as workouts go, they’re pretty light. Nobody’s too serious about grinding away in the gym, or skating drills, or even scrimmaging, not with last season still so fresh. 

The one thing they are serious about, is watching the Black’s games. 

Nights the Black is playing, they gather in the lounge, all sprawled in front of the TV. They watch the Black churn past the Blue and battle past the Maroon. On screen, the players look huge. Black and silver heroes that make the ice look small and crowded. They look so confident in front of the cameras, oblivious to the crowd and the noise, and the spotlights. Tyler is filled with something that’s not quite jealousy, not quite anxiety, but very much tinged with awe. 

It’s impossible to imagine them anywhere else. Tyler tries to think about Mike Richards as a rookie, in the AHL and skating with Coach Meyer, and he just – can’t. 

Tyler watches his teammates, too. Watching them watch the games is like a Rorschach for personalities. Wealer paces the room, unable to sit still. Vey clasps his hands in front of him, eyes glued to the screen. Tyler tries not to watch Pearson, tells himself not to watch Pearson, and watches Pearson anyway. Pearson spends most of the games slouched across the couch in a posture of studied nonchalance, betrayed by the way he bolts upright every time the Black get close to scoring. 

For the Final, all other activity in the compound ceases, because there’s no point in pretending anyone is paying attention to anything else. They watch Game 7 shoulder to shoulder on the couch, bound in silence, hardly breathing. 

The Black score one. Score two. Score three. 

The clock winds down, and Tyler doesn’t remember standing, but somehow everyone in the room is on their feet, is yelling, and someone’s arm is wrapped tight around his shoulder. And even Coach Meyer is getting choked up. 

The last seconds are impossibly long, and then suddenly, the game ends. 

They watch the sticks raised in triumph. They watch the Cup. They watch the Commissioner turn the spotlight over to Dustin Brown. 

Dustin Brown raises the microphone to his lips. 

And begins to speak. 

 

 

Dustin Brown speaks of repression and betrayal and lies. Dustin Brown speaks of rebellion. Dustin Brown, one thin voice amplified, says, “We will be united in our refusal, we will awake the spirit of resistance, and set all this right. We are patriots and our blood will refresh the tree of liberty.” Dustin Brown says, “Do not be afraid. Our fate is freedom. Our fate is a gift, and it cannot be taken away.” 

He tears his tags from his neck, and he lets them fall. 

The camera suddenly shakes, and there’s a different kind of roaring in the stands, and the feed fizzes and jumps and finally dies. 

 

 

Silence. 

Tyler is left wide-eyed, staring at the now-dark screen. Slowly, he looks around. A dozen faces are looking back at him, at each other, blinking as though they’d been in a dark room, and have been suddenly thrust into the light. 

Coach Meyer clears his throat. Tyler looks at him. They all look at him. Very slowly, very deliberately, he pulls his tags off. 

And then they all do. 

Afterwards, some of the guys throw their tags into a fire brought to life in an old oil drum. Some ball and pitch theirs as far as they can over the gate and into the woods. 

Tyler holds his in the palm of his hand. 

There was a point when he’d begged his mother for the chance to wear these. There was a time when his father was a stalwart ally of the Union. And yet, Tyler knew the moment he heard Dustin Brown’s words, that Dean had helped write that speech. _Jefferson,_ Tyler thinks. _Nice touch_. 

So then, who to follow? 

Especially when the last time he saw his father’s face was when he placed these around Tyler’s neck, an act that made his father weep. A curse, then. And his last gift. A lodestone. An anchor. 

His fingers close on them. The metal is already warm, the temperature of blood. The edges cut into his skin. He cannot wear them, and he cannot destroy them. He hangs them, reverently, from a hook in his room. In the mornings, they catch the light. 

And then they wait. 

 

 

Nothing happens. 

They’ve performed this great act of defiance – this one thing above all else they were told not to do: _don’t ditch your PerT tags. You’ll get arrested. They’ll come for you. They’ll find you. Never take them off. Never even dream of taking them off_. 

But there’s no response. No Union troopers or Morality Officers rise out of the ground or step out from behind the trees to arrest them. The sky fails to open, and lightning fails to strike them down. 

And so they wait. 

There’s no point in training for games that are never going to come. No point in being in shape for a season that will never start. So they mill, restless. Coach Meyer sizes up the supplies in the pantry and issues instructions on how much they can eat. They follow the chore rotation out of mindless habit. For a while, they take turns watching the road that leads up to the compound from town, but no one ever comes. 

Almost immediately, guys start drifting away. They leave in ones and twos, the guys who have girls in town go first. The ones who have families outside the Yellow follow, a desperate, set look in their eye. 

Tyler thinks: his parents will have to come for him now. Or they’ll send word, somehow, about where and how he is to come to them. They’ll need to know where he is. Or barring that, Dean needs to know where he is. If his parents can’t, surely Dean will send for him eventually. So Tyler waits. 

They count the days since Dustin Brown’s speech, mark them down on the whiteboard in the locker room. By the time they hit thirty, there are only seven of them left: Tyler, and Coach Meyer, and Vey, and Wealer, the Russians, and Pearson. 

Of course Pearson. Who even in this reduced crowd, avoids him assiduously. 

Or Tyler avoids him. 

Thirty-one days out, thick gray clouds fill the sky and loom low. The air hangs heavy with humidity, although by mid-morning a breeze has kicked up, strong enough to bend the tops of trees and shake their branches. Tyler has found a quiet, isolated spot near the back of the compound. And from there he is watching this dance – black limbs against the gray sky, when he hears the rumbling. 

He thinks, at first, that it’s some far off thunder. But it’s not. It’s the low rumble of distant motors, and it’s drawing closer. 

Quickly, very quickly, it becomes very loud, until it fills the air, and Tyler abandons his spot and sprints out, towards the front of the compound, towards the gates, towards the road. He almost runs head on into Pearson on his way over, moving just as quickly and blindly toward the sound. Pearson scowls, and Tyler glares back, but before he can say anything, the things tearing the air with their noise lumber into view. 

Tanks. Or, no. Not quite tanks, but huge, heavily armored vehicles. A darkly foreboding matte black. The multi-color Union crest falsely cheerful across their sides. They crunch to a stop outside the compound’s gates. 

Tyler recognizes those vehicles. Tyler recognizes those vehicles from when the only cool part of history class had been military history. When he and Teddy and Jack had memorized all the different types of guns: the better for their games, the better to play soldier. Those are M1114 up-armored Humvees. And the guns mounted on top, Tyler knows those have a range upwards of 100 yards. He takes a step back. 

Meyer and the rest have come out and they’re standing close to the gate. Much too close to the gate. Tyler calls out, “Get back! You need to get back!” 

But they can’t hear him, not over the noise of the engines. Coach Meyer walks up, and he swings the bracing board that holds the gates closed into place, and Tyler almost laughs – because it’s like placing one more blade of grass in front of their house of straw. 

Pearson has frozen next to him, and Tyler tells him, “They need to get back. Those things have a really long range.” 

This time Pearson yells with him; they wave their arms and their combined voices carry, or maybe their movements just caught his eye, but someone up by the gates turns – _is it Vey? Is it Nicky?_ And – 

There’s no warning at all. One moment the gate is there, the next it’s simply gone. A blast of light and fire and a noise so loud it’s not a noise at all, just something that shrieks and splits the air and lives inside Tyler’s head. 

There aren’t even remnants of the structure left, just puddles of liquid fire on the ground and a couple of trees standing nearby go up like torches. Next to him, Pearson’s mouth is moving, but for a moment Tyler can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. 

Pearson grabs his arm, and the ring is fading and the first sound Tyler starts to hear is a quick, dull _thud thud thud_ and a whistle by his ear. 

They run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naturally, neither Toffoli nor Pearson stayed down in the AHL, but were up and down (and now up) with the Kings. Call it poetic license. If you’re interested in catching up with the rest of the guys…
> 
> Marc Andre Cliche is currently with the Colorado Avalanche
> 
> Andrew “Soupy” Campbell signed a two-way with the Arizona Coyotes, and has started the 14-15 season with the Portland Pirates
> 
> Brandon Kozun is with the Toronto Maple Leafs (and kicked ass his first game)
> 
> Linden Vey was recently traded to Vancouver, and seems to have cracked the Nucks’ roster
> 
> Mark Morris is now an assistant coach with the Florida Panthers.
> 
> Jordan Weal is still with the Monarchs. 
> 
> Martin Jones is killing it as Jonathan Quick’s backup. 
> 
> Did I miss anyone? Lemme know. And thank you so much for reading. You guys are the best. Seriously.


	2. Fortunate Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Thank you, thank you, thank you for sticking with me through this one. In all honesty, I had a draft of this back in December 2014, but then I showed it to empathapathique, and I was like, “I kinda hate this. Should I just scrap the first 10,000 words and start over?” And she was like, “No! No! Well… okay, yes.” And _that,_ my friends, is how you know someone really loves you. So the first 10K got re-written. And then the second 20K got re-written. And then suddenly there were 30 more K? Oops? 
> 
> Honestly, this is probably the most work I have ever done for the smallest possible audience: each and every one of you who reads this means a tremendous amount to me. So, THANK YOU.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Ah, and here we get to the part where I desperately try to lift my head from this universe I’ve been immersed in for months and months and figure out what will be _most_ disturbing to people who have not been so immersed. This chapter, like those that preceded, has Dark Parts and the same broad warnings apply. Specific themes that people may find disturbing in this chapter: abuse, deliberately inflicted physical pain (torture), homophobia, PTSD. As always you are welcome to contact me for more specific content warnings (ionthesparrow12 at gmail, @ionthesparrow12 on twitter), or if after reading, you felt insufficiently warned, drop me a line here or in comments so I can adjust this language of this warning accordingly. 
> 
> More thank you's, posting schedule updates for the next parts, etc, in the footer notes.

* * *

 

Tyler runs. 

By the time he hits the back gate, he’s going flat out. His panicked fingers fumble at the latch, and then Pearson’s there, and he wrenches the gate open. The hinges squall in protest. Pearson shoves him through. The cross-country trail unfolds in front of them, its end lost in the woods. Tyler sprints forward, feet skidding in the gravel. 

Something is behind them. Something bad is happening behind them. And even if Tyler can’t hear anything over the roar of his pulse in his ears, he can smell smoke. 

They run. 

He runs on perfect, heady panic. Adrenaline floods his brain, floods his limbs. They run flat out. The trees become a green blur on either side. They run from the noise, from the smoke, from the Union vehicles and the fire and the guns. 

Pearson slows; he pulls up, gasping. Tyler’s feet carry him a few more yards, and then he stops too, drawn back towards Pearson. The need to keep running is a buzz under his skin, the fear like a roar in his ears. They need to keep running. They need to keep going. There’s danger behind him. 

But Pearson’s not moving. Pearson’s looking back the way they came. 

Tyler’s hands reach out unprompted and clutch at Pearson’s sleeve, starting to tug even before Tyler’s half-aware of what he’s doing. They need to go. They need to go. They need to _go_ – 

Pearson looks at him. His face is mottled red and white. His eyes are huge. “The others,” he says. “Veysey – ” 

He looks so scared. 

For one endless second, they hang there, everything perfectly still around them – Tyler clutching at his sleeve, leaning, shifting forward. And Pearson frozen in place, looking back. 

A gunshot echoes through the woods, a loud angry clap. And there’s shouting. Voices yelling. Loud. They sound so close. Tyler thinks he can see flashes of matte black through the gray and the green. Half-hidden shapes moving in the trees, and Pearson’s still not moving. 

Tyler yanks his sleeve, harder than before, dragging him toward the edge of the trail. There’s just a fraction of a second’s resistance, and then Pearson follows. They take off anew, wheeling like birds in flight. 

They need to run. 

Tyler crashes through the underbrush. Branches whip his face, the ground beneath his feet a wild constellation of roots and fallen branches. He almost goes down. He can hear Pearson’s rasping breaths just behind him. He can hear voices yelling and the bark of gunshots. 

He runs. 

The ground gives out from under him. All at once – no gentle decline, just gone. Tyler’s too startled to even cry out. He falls. He hits the ground hard and rolls – there’s a shock of cold, of wet. 

Darkness, and something liquid runs across his face – blood – sweat – _water_. He’s in water. He’s in a stream. Shallow enough to feel the rocks underneath him. Tyler tries to push himself up and gasps, hot shards of pain racing up his left arm. He clutches it close to his chest. 

Movement in front of him. Pearson’s in front of him, a few feet away, shaking himself and trying to find his footing in the mud. And noise from the bank above them – 

Tyler heart is hammering away in his chest. A voice still screaming in his head. _Run,_ it says. _Hide._

The slope above them forms a lip, hangs in such a way that it will shelter them from the view of anyone standing on the trail above. Tyler crawls through the stream towards the shore, hands slipping in the mud and over algae-slick river rocks. He needs to call out to Pears – he doesn’t dare call out to Pears. Turn around, he thinks. Turn around. _Please –_

Pearson turns, eyes locking onto Tyler. Tyler motions frantically at the slope, at the curve in the bank where they’ll be hidden from view. Pearson slips and slides toward him, and they press down into the mud and the dead leaves, feet and legs still in the icy, snow-melt stream; bodies sagging, pressing into the curve of the earth. 

For one long moment, there’s nothing. Just the constant babble of the stream over rocks, the smell of loam and clay in his nose. Tyler stares at Pearson, who wide-eyed in front of him, stares back, and the silence stretches and stretches. 

Pearson’s eyes dart up, towards the trail hidden from view, and then back to Tyler. He swallows. He takes a shaky breath. “Toff – ” 

Panic still arcs through his blood, Tyler reaches out and covers Pearson’s mouth with his hand. His face is clammy to the touch. Tyler tries to stare the desperate need for quiet into him. They must be silent. They must be still. They have to hide. 

Adrenaline crawls across his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck. His heart pounds so hard it hurts in his chest. 

Above them, Tyler hears voices. They grow louder, and louder still, until it sounds like whoever’s there is standing right above them. So near Tyler can hear individual footsteps in the leaves, can make out words, can hear someone calling out for his Sergeant. 

Tyler squeezes his eyes shut. He holds his breath. 

The footsteps fade. 

The voices get softer, move back the way they came, and finally disappear. 

Tyler doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare move, and his muscles feel locked and rigid. He can’t think, can’t do anything but strain for the sounds of something moving above. He listens, eyes still squeezed shut. And he waits. 

Pearson touches Tyler’s hand – the one he has clamped to Pearson’s face. Tyler’s startled into opening his eyes. Pearson’s fingers are icy against Tyler’s as he pulls Tyler’s hand away. “Toff,” he says, so soft it’s barely a whisper. “Toff. They’re gone.” 

Tyler blinks. Pearson is so close he’s almost hard to focus on. Tyler’s left a muddy print on his face. It mixes with blood from a cut on his cheek. Tyler’s shaking. Maybe both of them are shaking. Pearson hasn’t let go of his hand, and his eyes are huge and round, blazing even in the fading light, and – 

It’s getting dark, Tyler realizes. It’s the growing dark that’s saved them, the dark that’s forced the soldiers to suspend their search. 

If he opens his mouth, he’s going to sob. 

The chill of the water seeps into him, so cold it’s like pins and needles against the parts of him still submerged. The current tugs at him, trying to push him downstream. Tyler shifts, the cold and the wet finally overriding the fear, and the pain in his arm asserts itself, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He lets his eyes crawl up the bank, and then looks back to Pearson. 

Pearson tips his head. Just a tiny shift, pointing his chin out at the water. A gesture so intensely familiar Tyler recognizes it even here, in the woods. Recognizes it from dozens of games, from hundreds of faceoffs: _You take that side. I’ve got this one_. 

Tyler straightens, achingly slow and stiff. Pearson mirrors him, leaning back and then inching upstream. Tyler creeps away from the bank. He looks up. 

At the top of the slope, nothing moves. He looks back at Pearson, and forces himself to ignore the flutter in his chest. He swallows and mouths, “Gone.” 

From a few feet in the other direction, Pearson nods. 

They wade across the stream, steadying themselves on the far bank and stepping out onto dry land. Tyler looks again up at trail above them. The trees and bushes sway in the breeze, deceptively pastoral. As though nothing had ever disturbed them. 

Pearson drops to the ground in a heap, pulling his knees up to his chest, and wrapping his arms around himself. His eyes are still huge. Tyler lowers himself down next to him, awkward, feet slipping in the wet grass. There’s a bitter taste of bile in the back of his throat. Neither one of them can look away from the far bank. 

Pearson swallows. “Those were – ” 

“M1114 humvees,” Tyler says, thought welling to the surface of his mind unprompted. He can hear the astonishment in his own voice, the breathlessness over the fact that he still can’t quite believe they were real. “With a Browning M2HB .50 cal.” And suddenly he’s almost giddy. He’s never been more right. He has exactly the right answer, and the information’s never, ever been less relevant. He could tell Pearson when the guns were first introduced. He could tell Pearson what they cost to make. How many rounds they fire per minute. He could tell him their range, and none of – _none of it –_ would matter even the tiniest bit. He gasps out something that’s almost laughter. And Pears – 

Pearson’s glaring at him, face dark like he’s pissed. 

Tyler clamps his lips shut. He goes hot then cold all over, as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun. A hard lump lodges in his throat. “That was the Union.” His voice keeps trying to tremble. “Those were Union soldiers.” 

Pearson looks away. He scrubs his hands across his face, and then he looks again at Tyler. “What do they want?” 

As though Tyler were supposed to know. Tyler shivers. “I don’t know.” But he knows they’re dangerous – neither he nor Pearson are wearing tags, and that alone would be enough to do them in. And in the back of his mind there’s the fact that Tyler and his parents left the Blue & White long after midnight, long after street curfew and Tyler remembers how hard the wind was blowing, and how it had come into the car when his father rolled the window down to slip the border guard a wad of bills. And only there in the dark, on that bit of lonely road where the Blue & White bordered the Navy & Gold, and where the wind came in so strong off the lake, had it hit him: his parents were running. Even if they’d never said those words. And you don’t run without a reason. Tyler shivers. “But if they catch us, they’ll arrest us.” 

Pearson snorts. “ _You_ they might arrest. You’re somebody important. Me they’d probably just shoot.” 

He says it fast and flat, like it’s nothing. Pearson’s not even looking at him. But it stings. Tyler’s breath comes too quick. There’s a hot burn behind his eyes, and all he can think about is every single time all the guys went quiet when he walked in, or rolled their eyes and turned away, and even out here – in the fucking woods, even after getting _shot_ at Pearson wants him to know he’s Not Like Them. 

He looks at Pearson, with his legs drawn up tight, all tucked into himself, and not looking at Tyler at all. 

Tyler’s throat closes. He has to swallow before he can speak. “We can’t stay here,” he says finally. He stands, legs shaky under him. For one long, horrible moment, he thinks Pearson isn’t going to move. Pearson isn’t going to come with him. And then he’s going to be out here, and he’s going to be _alone –_

Pearson looks up at him, his face is an eerie sort of blank. He takes a breath. And then he pushes himself to his feet. 

They walk along the bank of the stream, mostly by default. Mostly just because they have to go somewhere. 

They’re soaked, half-covered with mud. Tyler’s clothes hang heavy on him. He pulls his hood up. His sleeve is torn and the ache in his arm has settled into his wrist. He holds it tight against his chest, but it throbs with every step. They walk quickly and without speaking – casting nervous glances behind them, freezing every few steps at phantom sounds, like deer listening for hunters. 

They’re walking more-or-less west, but there’s no sun to chase; the sky is too heavily gray. And there are no shadows to get longer, but they are rapidly losing the light. Tyler picks his way down a gentle slope, the ground is soft, almost springy, covered in ferns and broad, round-leafed ground cover. Tyler eyes the darkening sky above the trees. 

It may be summer, but up in the foothills, it still gets cold at night. Actually, if it were any time of year other than summer, they’d likely already have frozen to death. Tyler closes his eyes, allows himself one long pulse of longing for Cliche, for Dean, for _someone_ to emerge from between the trees and announce that everything’s been taken care of. Everything’s going to be alright. 

He actually looks out at the trees, scanning the shadows for some miracle. But, of course, nothing moves. His heart flutters in his chest. 

They’re as good as dead out here. They have no food. No water. No dry clothes. No way to make a fire, even if that were an option. 

Maybe the Union would just have meant a quicker, less painful death – 

Except, fuck that. 

Tyler Peter Toffoli is not going to die covered in mud in the anonymous backwoods of the Yellow. Not today. “We need a place to stay the night.” 

“Yeah.” Pearson says it like that much should be obvious. He’s pulled his hands into sleeves, and Tyler can see him shiver. 

“Do you – ” 

“I’ve never been out in the fucking woods before,” Pearson snaps. “I don’t know what the fuck we’re looking for.” 

Tyler’s startled into quiet. Pearson has his arms wrapped tight to his chest. He drops Tyler’s gaze, glancing around at the trees and the water. He looks – lost. 

Tyler swallows back his fear. They can’t both of them panic, not at the same time. He clears his throat. “We need, like, a cave. Or even a ridge. Or just somewhere that looks dry.” He watches Pearson’s jaw working back and forth. “We’ll find something,” Tyler says. 

After a beat, Pearson nods. 

And it’s Pearson who spots it – a grove of hemlocks clustered on the opposite bank, just around the next bend of the stream. Pearson points. “Like that?” 

One of the trees cants at an angle steep enough to have started pulling its roots free from the bank. It forms a little hollow, thick roots providing a frame that leaves and needles have thatched. 

Wouldn’t it be ironic, to be sheltered by hemlock? Tyler thinks about asking Pearson if he knows the story of Socrates’ death, and if he thought it was really a choice: that Socrates really did die because he decided it was the right time to die. 

But he doesn’t bring up Socrates or hemlock or any of it. He doesn’t need to ask to know how incredibly stupid Pearson would think it was, and he certainly doesn’t need Pearson to tell him that this _good day to die_ business is bullshit. 

They’re not going to die, Tyler concludes. Not tonight anyway. “Yeah,” Tyler says, starting to move toward the hollow. “Like that.” 

They cross to the far bank at a wide part of the stream, where the water’s only ankle deep. The hollow is larger than he thought at first, it extends deep into the earth, dark mouth gaping. Tyler picks up a round river stone and pitches it in, waiting to see if anything rushes out. They listen to the thump the rock makes, eyes darting around the landscape. Nothing emerges, and nothing around them moves. Tyler drops to his hands and knees and crawls inside. The hollow smells damp, like rotten leaves, but the ground inside is soft and mostly dry. He scoots as far as he can to one side and waves Pearson in. 

Pearson settles gingerly next to him. 

Outside the gloom grows thicker, the light more uncertain. Pearson shivers. 

It’s weirdly familiar. Him and Pearson, alone in the dark. The one place they really ever talked. Pearson heaves a sigh, and Tyler asks, “Are you okay?” 

Pearson looks at him like it’s the world’s stupidest question. 

“I mean – I meant are you hurt.” Tyler pauses. “You’re bleeding.” 

Pearson touches the cut on his cheek and shrugs. “Cold,” he says. “Wet. That’s all.” He frowns at Tyler. He looks less panicked now. More guarded. More like himself. “You?” 

“I’m okay.” Tyler brings his hand up and tries to roll his wrist. The joint protests. “Fucked up my wrist a little, I think.” 

Pearson’s mouth tightens. He stares up at their earthen ceiling, lips pressed together. 

“We should try to sleep.” Tyler tries to make himself sound sure, sound confident, like if it he sounds like he knows the right thing to do, it will be. Pearson’s a rookie, so it’s Tyler job to take care of him, even out here, even if Pearson hates him. 

“Yeah.” Pearson rubs a hand across his face. He sounds, more than anything, like he’s too tired to argue. 

They lie with heads pointed toward the stream, listening to the rush of water. The cold from the ground seeps into Tyler, and he pulls his arms close in against his chest, tucks his nose into his damp sweatshirt, trying to preserve heat. 

Pearson shifts next to him, restless and uneasy. 

Tyler tries closing his eyes, but every time he does the gates of the compound explode into flames. The sound of gunshots echoes in his head, and the phantom smell of the smoke still clings inside his nostrils – and the hollow seems suddenly very small, the dark really heavy all around him, and the air too thick to feed his lungs. Tyler opens his eyes, but the images remain, painted in the dark of their hollow instead of on the backs of his eyelids, bright and lurid. Tyler doesn’t want to see. He doesn’t want to remember, and more than anything, he doesn’t want to be alone with this. He looks over at Pearson. 

Pearson’s crying. Almost but not quite silent. There’s just enough light to pick out the shine of tear tracks running down the side of his face, drawing lines in the dirt and the blood. 

Tyler’s throat closes. The fear is thick and black and all around him. Panic settles heavy in his chest. And Tyler may have cried himself to sleep a dozen nights over the last month, but _Pearson_ never cries, and they’re so, so _fucked_ , they have absolutely nothing, and no place to go, and – 

Pearson turns his head and looks at Tyler. “Do you think they’re okay?” 

Tyler’s spinning thoughts come to an abrupt halt. He can see Wealer’s face perfectly – Wealer sitting next to him on the bus, and Wealer asking dumb questions, and Wealer’s exasperated, patient look when he supervised Tyler doing chores. Tyler can see Coach Meyer’s sureness, the certainty of his motions when he reached up and removed his tags, and Vey – Tyler can still feel how Veysey had grabbed him after goals, thumping Tyler’s helmet, grinning. 

Tyler swallows. “Yeah,” he says, barely getting it out around the lump in his throat. “They’re okay. Probably just ran the opposite direction, is all.” 

Pearson watches him for a second longer, and maybe he doesn’t believe it any more than Tyler does, but he turns his head back to the ceiling and nods. 

Tyler drifts somewhere between awake and asleep. He finally sleeps – he must sleep, because some impossible amount of time later, he snaps back into alertness. It feels later. The darkness even thicker. His eyes feel crusty, his body sore. He listens for what unknown noise woke him, and a minute later he hears it again – a roll of thunder uncurling across the sky. 

Pearson isn’t sleeping, either. Maybe he hasn’t slept, or he has and was startled into wakefulness by the same storm, but Tyler can see his arms are held tight to his chest. Pearson shivers, hard shudders that shake his whole body. 

Tyler is so cold. And so afraid. 

Lightning flickers in the dark and the sound of rain is a whitewash all around them. Tyler pulls his hand free from his sleeve, unsure for a moment if he’s really awake, maybe there’s might be no real way to tell out here, in the thick dark, far away from everything. He stretches across the space between them. He lays his hand on Pearson’s shoulder, bravery born of desperation. He tugs at his sleeve, the fabric still damp and cold to the touch. 

He doesn’t have any idea how Pearson’s going to respond. Maybe Tyler’s going to get shaken off. Maybe Tyler’s going to get yelled at. For a moment, Pearson doesn’t respond at all, the two of them motionless, Tyler’s outstretched hand left hanging. 

And then Pearson starts to shift. He shuffles towards Tyler, slow and stiff. Tyler gathers him in. He can hear both of them breathing, unsteady and shallow in the dark. 

Pearson holds himself very still; he hides his face in Tyler’s shirt. 

Neither one of them says anything. 

But Pearson’s skin warms under his hands, and the shivering eases. His breath is warm against Tyler’s throat. 

Tyler wants to ask if Pearson is afraid. And if this small act of comfort means he doesn’t hate Tyler anymore. Tyler wants to know if he can go back to calling him _Pears_ , and at the same time he knows it would be stupid to bring any of this up, because none of it matters. Maybe nothing at all that happened Before matters. And – it’s so, so stupid to think, but subtract the cold and the damp, get rid of the mud caked under his nails and the ache in his wrist and the way his hair is plastered to his head, ditch the bone-deep terror – get rid of all that, and this is very much how any number of his ridiculous, impossible fantasies ended. 

Holding someone like this. Being held. What sort of world did he think this was, that he’d ever get to do that? That he’d ever get to have that? Tyler hiccups, a little sob working itself free. Pearson’s fingers curl tighter in his shirt. 

Tyler cradles the back of Pearson’s head. He tries to slow his breathing. 

Lots of nights in Manchester, Tyler put himself to sleep with fantasies of being far, far away. And in this fantasy life, he goes to bed with someone. In the morning, they wake up and rise together, and go downstairs to some sun-drenched kitchen, and this man – and it is, always, a man, which even in his mind adds a slick film of guilt to whole fiction – this man, whose face changes, stolen from a movie or memory, depending on Tyler’s mood – will make breakfast, and Tyler will make coffee and fetch the newspaper. They split it, and read sections at a table bathed in morning light. Tyler will get ready for work, and before he leaves, this man will pull him close, will touch his face and straighten his tie and kiss him goodbye. And in the evening, Tyler will come home and they’ll have dinner and they’ll go upstairs and lie down next to each other, and then do it all again. 

On more than one night, it was Pearson’s face Tyler had painted on this man. Pearson’s body Tyler had imagined touching him. And even though it makes him horrible, in the privacy of his imagination, he now pretends that they’re not outside at all, but rather that they’re in some version of this fantasy. That they went to bed together by choice, in comfort. 

What a fraud this is. How stupid he is to pretend, even for a moment. But Pearson rests solidly against him. Pearson’s warmth is real against his chest, his hair soft under Tyler fingers. And even if it’s another illusion, he feels safer with Pearson held in his arms. 

 

 

Tyler wakes to the constant patter of rain. Thin, gray light filters into their hollow, announcing morning. He cranes his neck to look out and every muscle twinges and aches, stiff from a night on the cold ground. Pearson is asleep. Still held in the circle of Tyler’s arms. He twitches against Tyler’s chest, moans. 

Dreaming. “Pearson,” Tyler says, soft. “Pears.” 

Pearson startles awake all at once. He goes rigid and jerks away from Tyler with a sudden, awkward violence. Tyler freezes. 

Pearson winces, clearly just as stiff and sore as Tyler. He holds himself very still, and blinks at Tyler. There’s a palpable moment of recognition, of clarity, and Pearson relaxes. 

They stare at each other, bleary. Pearson finally looks away, scratches at the stubble that’s starting to come in, glancing from Tyler to the world outside. “I have to pee,” he says. 

Tyler gestures toward the mouth of their hollow. “Be my guest.” 

Pearson rolls his eyes, but there’s a moment of hesitation before he steels himself and climbs out. 

Tyler follows him, emerging into drizzle and thick fog. He shivers and pulls his hood up. Forget the luxury of Scarborough, Tyler would just like to be dry and warm. He wanders down to the stream. He washes his face and rinses his mouth with the icy water, mentally crossing his fingers that it doesn’t make them sick. After a moment, Pearson joins him, easing himself down onto one of the flat granite slabs that edge the stream. He runs his tongue around his mouth and makes a face like he doesn’t like the state of things. He digs in his pocket for something and pulls out a lone mint. He breaks it in half with his teeth, spitting one piece carefully into the palm of his hand. He holds it out to Tyler. 

Tyler hesitates for a just a second before he takes it. 

Pearson looks around at the fog and the stream, and the woods surrounding them. He look back at Tyler and frowns, like Tyler is somehow responsible for the weather. “Well?” 

Tyler wrinkles his nose. “Well what?” 

“Well – what are we going to do?” Pearson’s looking at him like there’s a right answer and Tyler is somehow going to know it. As though this situation was something you could study for, and Tyler should have been prepared. 

Before last night, Tyler’d never spent the night outside in his whole life – unless you count setting up a tent in the backyard, just a stone’s throw from the back door. Which really, Tyler thinks, Pearson probably wouldn’t. Tyler and his father had been planning on going camping in that tent. A million years ago, when Tyler was just a kid. Nothing had ever come of it, of course. Just another trip his father had ended up being too busy to take, and Tyler had ended up spending the night in the backyard, alone. 

Not that last night made sleeping outside seem like a good idea. They’re wet. They’re cold, and it seems clear they’re not going to last long out here. Everything they need is back at the compound. “We could go back. Get food, some clothes.” Tyler hesitates, thinking. “And then go to Manchester? Anybody else who made it out, they’d probably head to Manchester. And some of the guys who left earlier might still be there.” 

Pearson pitches a pebble into the stream in front of them, still frowning. “What if the Union is still at the compound?” 

If the Union is still there, going back means the very real possibility of being arrested, or hurt, or shot. Or what if it’s even worse – what if the compound isn’t there at all? What if it’s burned. Flattened. Empty. Tyler feels queasy. He pushes the nerves down. “I think we have to try. And – if they’re there, we’ll hear them before they hear us.” He hopes. “Right?” 

Pearson’s holding another stone in his hand and he stares at it, quiet for a long moment. He finally pitches the rock into the water and looks at Tyler. “Okay. But what about that – can we even get to Manchester?” 

Tyler tries to remember what the maps of the Yellow had looked like. How long the trip had taken by bus. “Take about a day, day and a half to walk there.” If they make good time. If they don’t run into trouble. 

They look at each other. Each, Tyler thinks, privately harboring the same fantasy: that they’ll make it to Manchester and find the entire team intact and waiting – _Toff! Pears! There you are, what took you so long? –_ and weighing this hope against the possibility of what it will mean if they get there and find nothing at all. 

But then again, maybe not. Pearson is something of a cipher. His dark eyes are clear looking back at Tyler, but all Tyler can really tell is that he’s considering the issue with care. 

Pearson shrugs. “Alright. Let’s go back, and then let’s go to Manchester. Manch probably at least has people who might know what the fuck is going on.” __

They walk back the way they came, silent again as they skirt the edges of the stream. Tyler’s head is pounding, and his wrist throbs in sync with his steps. They both slow as they approach the spot they left the trail, until they’re stopped entirely, staring up the slope, a solid ten-yard climb. Steep. Rocky surface slick from the rain. 

They tumbled down that yesterday. Forever ago. Tyler swallows, his heart pounds in his chest. He can hear Pearson breathing too quick. Both of them frozen, Tyler straining for some sign they should turn away, or some bolt of courage that will send him forward. 

Next to him, Pearson squares his shoulders. Eyes never leaving the trail ahead, he reaches out and takes Tyler by the arm. “Come on.” 

 

 

The back gate stands open, just as they left it, door swinging loose on its hinges. 

There are no rumbling trucks, no shouting voices, no signs of life at all. There’s a confused array of footprints in the mud, but there’s no – 

Tyler swallows. There are no bodies, no blood. No sign of violence. 

The adrenaline hums under his skin. Everything’s so familiar – all the angles of the buildings, every step of the path is one he’s walked a thousand times. But it’s never been so empty, so still, and it makes the whole place feel foreign. They shuffle forward, one step, two steps, then freeze, holding and waiting. 

Nothing moves. 

Everything around them looks weirdly undisturbed, as though everyone had simply decided to leave, everyone just out on some particularly long road trip. But at the far end of the compound, Tyler keeps catching glimpses of the burned remains of the wrecked front gate. The blasted corpses of trees, broken branches and pieces of trunk lying blackened and scattered on the ground. They lie where they fell, snapped into pieces and unnatural angles, and – 

Tyler makes himself look away. He keeps his gaze pinned on Pearson’s back. 

They skirt the edge of the rink, keeping to the shadows. Pearson just ahead of him, sneaking frequent looks back over his shoulder at Tyler. They come around the corner, and just across the quad from them lies the dining hall. 

Food. 

Even through his queasiness, Tyler’s hungry, hungrier maybe than he ever has been. It makes them both brave. They cross the quad at a quick trot. 

The door to the dining hall has been left standing open. And peering through the windows, Tyler can see overturned tables, chairs sent sprawling. Something happened here, something’s wrong here – 

The urge to run crawls wild under his skin. 

Pearson’s staring at the overturned tables, too. He swallows twice. “I’ll go in,” he says. His eyes lock on Tyler’s. “Stay here and keep watch. Yell if you see anything, okay?” 

Tyler nods, movements quick and jerky. 

The compound seems vast when Pearson disappears inside. Even more impossibly still all around him. Every breeze that stirs the branches, every whisper of leaves sends new adrenaline into his blood. Every shadow seems to hide phantom movement, and time slows and stretches. He can feel himself sweating; his throat goes dry. His eyes scan the surroundings, his ears strain against the quiet. 

Pearson isn’t coming back. The thought lodges in his head with a sudden certainty. He’s disappeared, eaten up somehow in the depths of the building. Tyler’s on his own out here, he’s – 

Just as the panic gets too high, there’s a flicker of movement inside and Pearson reappears. He’s holding one of the green sacks they used to carry groceries. “They looted the place, but I got some stuff. There were a bunch of protein bars left.” 

There’s a hard lump in Tyler’s throat that’s making it difficult to speak, so Tyler just nods. He’s so ridiculously grateful at the sight of Pearson back in front of him, so grateful he has to restrain himself from reaching out and clutching his sleeve. Tyler swallows back the panic fluttering in his chest. He swallows, hard. “Clothes next?” He manages. 

“Yeah.” 

They have to walk past the front gates to get to the dorms. Tyler keeps his eyes pinned on the front door of the dormitory. He doesn’t look. He won’t look. 

Once there, they both stare at the door. 

Tyler’s throat is dry, but he says, “I’ll go in this time.” It’s only fair. 

Pearson’s eyes meet his. “Warm stuff.” 

“Okay.” Tyler slips inside. 

The two bunks closest to the door have been shoved to the side. The trunks overturned, clothing and keepsakes, old pucks and magazines scattered across the floor. 

Someone was in here, someone who didn’t belong, someone who – 

Tyler can’t think about that. Clothing. They need dry clothing. Something warm. The laundry closet is just to his right. He grabs an empty laundry sack. There are clean socks in the closet. New, still waiting their first use. Long underwear. T-shirts still folded and stiff. 

Layers. They needs layers. Tyler pauses, fingers still resting on the shelves. What they really need is rain gear, but they don’t have any of that. They were hardly ever outside at all, just long enough to cross from the bus to the rink, or the rink to the dorms, constantly shuffled one place to the next. No wonder they don’t have rain gear. 

They’re gonna have to settle for hoodies instead, and windbreakers to go over those, if he can find any. Those won’t be in the closet, though. He’ll have to get those from someone’s trunk. 

Tyler looks towards Cliche's room; all Tyler’s stuff is in there. He can imagine it, pristine and untouched, but that’s way down at the far end of the dorms, and Tyler really, really wants to get out of here. Wants to be gone. The clothing is all the same, anyway. He can just take it from – steal it from – 

He shudders hard and pushes that thought away. He forces himself to open the closest trunk. His hands won’t stop shaking and the latch slips in his numb fingers. 

The trunk is empty. Its contents packed and gone. 

The trunk lid falls shut, the bang loud in the quiet and Tyler freezes, a new surge of adrenaline pouring through his system like ice water. Every second he’s in here, he’s more sure there are Union soldiers creeping closer outside. Every second he’s in here is one they could come back. 

Tyler makes himself move. He goes to the next trunk. There’s a hoodie and jeans inside, lying neatly folded. And, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know whose it is, but the number is printed on the fabric, and even if it weren’t, Tyler knows. Vey sleeps here. 

Slept here. 

Tyler can’t breathe. His vision’s blurring a little. His hands are shaking. His fingers close on the fabric. He stuffs both items into his bag. He goes to the next trunk – 

_Wealer’s trunk –_

Tyler sits down hard, right on the floor, right next to Wealer’s trunk, and he can’t see at all, there are tears streaming down his face now. He swipes at his eyes. He can’t breathe. His chest hurts. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. 

The lid of Wealer’s trunk is cold under his hands, and just for one second, he lets his forehead rest against it. 

He breathes out hard. He needs to move. He has to keep moving. Tyler lifts his head. His stomach feels sick. He makes himself do it anyway. He takes Wealer’s pants, his hoodie and jacket, fingers brushing across the embroidered number. 

What else? 

He grabs a blanket off one of the bunks, and he’s stuffing it into the sack when he hears Pearson hiss, “Tyler.” 

Tyler freezes, and he can just barely hear what sounds like the purr of a motor. His blood goes to ice. 

He starts for the door, but just a few steps away is Pearson’s bunk – the one he claimed when he moved out of the Captain’s room, when he was so desperate to get away from Tyler, after they – 

Tyler’s steps slow, almost involuntary. His eyes run over the array of Pearson’s possessions, still mostly undisturbed. He reverses course. 

It has to be here somewhere. 

He runs his hands over Pearson’s things, pulls a stack of magazines off Pearson’s shelf, sends a broken stick clattering to the floor. Tyler hasn’t seen Pearson’s hymnal since they day they fought over it, but it must be here. 

He can’t find it; it’s not anywhere on the shelves. 

“ _Tyler_ ,” Pearson calls from outside, more urgent this time, an edge to his voice. 

He’d keep it somewhere safe, but he’d keep it somewhere close. He’d want it close at hand. Tyler’s eyes land on Pearson’s pillow. He flips it out of the way. 

Two items lie underneath. The hymnal. And a knife. 

Tyler blinks, and then he grabs both, stuffing them deep into his pockets. He runs for the door. 

Pearson grabs him when he emerges, one hand tight around his arm. “Jesus, what took you? Come on.” He drags Tyler along, and outside the sound of motors is louder, a growing hum that sets his teeth on edge, makes the hair on the back of his neck rise. They sprint back across the quad, a bag slung over each of their shoulders, and Tyler’s heart hammering in his chest. They dart under the shadow of the dining hall. From here, they just need to get past the rink. From the rink it’s just steps to the gate. They turn the corner – 

Pearson slams to a halt. So hard and so fast, Tyler runs into him, and he looks up. 

There’s a soldier standing there. He has a Monarchs grocery sack in each hand, but he’s unmistakable in his matte black uniform. His face is pale above the dark collar, his eyes wide and startled. 

He looks young. He looks their age, can’t possibly be much older. He blinks at them, and all three of them stand frozen. For forever, for what feels like a million years, they stare. 

He has brown eyes. Pock marks on his cheeks. His knuckles are white, and Tyler can see his Adam’s apple bob, his throat work. 

The soldier shouts. He drops the grocery sacks, flailing for something at his side – a radio maybe. Or his gun. 

They bolt. 

They run without looking back. Back through the gate, down the path. Pearson spins, looking behind them, but feet still moving, still backing up. He glances at Tyler. 

There are no sounds of pursuit. Tyler pushes down the queasiness. They’re not just blindly running. They’re going somewhere. “This way, this way –” he says, and yanks Pearson south. 

Pearson follows him off the trail. They move quick between the trees, keeping up a fast pace, listening the whole time for the sounds of someone giving chase. 

The sun breaks through the clouds while they move, slowly edging higher. They work their way south, for an hour, maybe two, although really Tyler has no way of knowing exactly how long. The panic ebbs from his system, until hunger edges out fear. His steps slow. His stomach claws at him. Tyler clears his throat, he calls out, “Do you think – could we – ” 

Pearson slows and stops. The color is still high in his cheeks. He blinks, looking around the clearing they’re in, as though checking it one last time for unseen dangers. He blows out a long breath and drops to a seat on a fallen log, face in his hands. “God. Fuck.” 

It comes out muffled, but the sentiment gets across. Pearson shakes his head. “Fuck.” 

Tyler sits down next to him. _Fuck_ pretty much covers it. He’s not sure what else there is to say. 

Pearson glances over at him, and then up at the sky, one hand still covering his mouth. 

Tyler twists the strap of the laundry sack in his hand. Pearson seems really edgy, really anxious. Which – that’s probably Tyler’s fault. Tyler took too long, and they almost got caught. That soldier could have grabbed them. That soldier could have shot them. That soldier, whose face Tyler can’t stop seeing, who looked just like any kid on any of the teams they play. Who would have looked more natural wandering their compound as a winger or a defenseman than someone in a soldier’s garb. 

But there’s nothing to say about that. Or maybe there’s too much to say. He looks over at Pearson, who’s still staring at the sky. “Food or clothes?” 

Pearson blinks at him. “Food,” he says finally, and then digs into the sack. He pulls out a protein bar and hands it Tyler. 

Most days – even after games – these things had been sickly sweet, a weird, grainy texture that stuck behind your teeth, and a chalky aftertaste that felt like it took half a gallon of water to get rid of. Today they taste amazing. Today they’re the best thing Tyler has ever eaten. 

Pearson watches him lick the last remnants from the wrapper and his mouth twists up into something that’s almost a smile. He crumples his own wrapper and digs in the grocery sack again. “I always hated these.” 

Tyler takes the second one Pearson offers. He turns it over in his hands. “My first year – before you got here – we had these peanut butter ones. They were ten times worse. Every, like, tenth bar would be rancid. It was so bad.” His voice feels rusty. He shrugs. “Cliche used to throw them out the window of the bus. And we had, like, a million cases of them, so we’d try to hide them, way, way in the back of the pantry – ” 

Pearson laughs a little. A nervous, shocky edge to it. “Do you think – ” it takes him a couple tries to get it out. “Do you think that’s what that soldier ended up with?” 

Tyler starts to giggle. And it shouldn’t be that funny, but it _is._ And maybe it’s the stress, or maybe it’s the sugar hitting their systems, but for a few minutes the clearing is filled with a sort of desperate, manic laughter, and attempts at stifling laughter, and more laughter when that fails. It feels good. And weird. And maybe necessary. Tyler finally wipes his eyes. He untwists the strings of the laundry sack. “C’mon. You want something dry to wear?” 

“God, yes.” 

They strip. The air is cool on Tyler’s skin. His feet are clammy and wrinkled, and he sits for a moment, letting them dry. Pearson holds his damp socks out at arm’s length. “These should be burned.” 

When Tyler looks up, Pearson’s mouth is curved, just a little. Tyler risks a small smile of his own. “Probably.” 

Pearson laughs. “Definitely.” 

Tyler pulls his shirt off and studies his wrist in the sunlight. It’s bruised and a little swollen. He catches Pearson watching as he tries to rotate it. Pearson raises an eyebrow. 

Tyler shrugs. He tries to use his old t-shirt to get some of the mud off his arms. Both he and Pearson are disgusting. His mother would be horrified if she could see him. 

Pearson holds Vey’s hoodie in his hands. He loses his amused look, and he’s quiet for a long time before putting it on. When he looks up, his expression is tight. “We have daylight left. We should try to cover more ground.” 

“Yeah.” Tyler balls up his old clothes and stuffs them back into the sack. The last item to go in is his pants, still damp and caked with mud, and probably no good for anything but making rags out of at this point. He crumples them into a ball, and there’s something hard and heavy in the pocket. “Oh. Wait.” 

Pearson looks at him, expectant. 

Tyler digs them free. He straightens and holds them out to Pearson. His small book and his pocketknife, maybe slightly damp, but not too worse for wear. The knife winks in the sunlight. 

Pearson stares at them, unmoving. They start to look strange sitting side by side in his palm. Tyler frowns over them. How did Pearson have a knife, anyway? And why did he want it so close at hand? 

Tyler starts to bring his hand back. “Don’t you – ” 

Pearson snatches them, and they disappear almost instantly into some pocket. He’s staring at Tyler, his chest rising and falling quick, the color high in his cheeks. 

Tyler’s shoulders curl. Maybe this was the wrong thing, maybe he shouldn’t have, maybe – 

Pearson swallows, once. Hard. And then he leans in, quick, and kisses Tyler. He catches Tyler off-center. Just at the corner of his mouth. 

Pearson turns without a word, and starts walking. 

 

 

Lots of kisses don’t mean anything. 

Or – they don’t mean _that_ , anyway. 

They don’t talk as they climb. This part of the Yellow is covered in rolling hills trying to become mountains, and they’re working their way up to the ridgeline – so they can parallel the road, keep it as a reference, but stay out of sight. Not that it seems to matter much: down on the roadway, there’s no traffic, not a single vehicle in sight. 

It leaves a lot of time for Tyler to think. 

Mostly about Pearson, whose head bobs at an even pace just ahead of him. About the way his face had looked so surprised, so solemn back in the clearing. And how for just an instant he had been so close. Tyler thinks about the way his lips had felt pressed against Tyler’s face, if they were as warm as Tyler remembers them being, or if the whole thing was too quick for that to be true. Maybe he’s imagining that part. 

But – sailors kiss the ground when they’re happy to be home. Parents kiss their kids. His mom kissed her friends on the cheek when they came over to play cards. Kissing can be a sign of betrayal. And last year, they watched the Calder Cup final, and after the Sens won it, Francis Lessard had kissed his goalie. Cliche had cleared his throat pointedly and said, “That’s just Less being French.” 

Whatever that means. 

So, really, it doesn’t mean anything, and it’s stupid for Tyler to still be thinking about it. Pearson’s definitely not still thinking about it. Pearson’s probably thinking about something useful, like how far they’ve walked, or how many more miles until Manchester, or if anyone can see them walking the ridgeline in the parts where the trees get thin. 

Pearson’s probably thinking about other people – because Pearson’s good like that, and takes care of other people and worries about them, and he’s not selfish like Tyler. He’s not weird and all twisted up inside, he’s just good and brave and clever, and he’s definitely not still thinking about kissing Tyler. He’s not thinking about whether he meant to kiss Tyler exactly where he did, or if he had meant to kiss Tyler’s cheek, or if he had missed a little. If he had meant to kiss Tyler on the mouth. 

Tyler swallows. 

The first person to ever kiss Tyler, outside of his parents of course, was Cynthia. There’s a picture of them, at age four or five, holding hands and lips pressed together – which Tyler found deeply humiliating, but that his mother said was sweet. 

“Mom,” he whined, when she hung it up in the hallway. “Do you have to display that? It’s embarrassing.” 

“You’re thirteen, dear. Everything embarrasses you.” 

“ _Dad,_ ” Tyler complained. 

But his dad just shrugged and patted him on the shoulder and said, “You could do worse than marrying into the Tanenbaum clan.” 

Cynthia had kissed him again at seventeen – in the back of her family’s cloakroom, tucked among the winter furs and pea coats. The noise of the holiday party muffled but cheerful all around them. Her mouth was small and delicate, and her breasts pressed against him in a way Tyler suspected was supposed to be very exciting, but really just felt strange. They were both flushed, stolen champagne bottle still held loosely in her hand. Her tongue darted against his lips; she ran her fingers through his hair – and then she laughed. “I’m sorry, I just – ” She pulled back a little, eyes sparkling but not unkind. “You’re like my brother.” 

They settled on the floor instead, passing the bottle back and forth, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. “If I have to make nice with those harpies out there one more minute, I’ll scream.” She sighed. “Tell me about your hockey games. My dad never lets me go to games anymore.” 

Tyler hasn’t thought about Cynthia for a long time. Not long after that party, they had stopped going over to the Tanenbaums’ house, and Tyler’s dad had gotten a tight, angry line to his mouth anytime the name came up. His parents stopped going out, and at home there would be long, tense silences where they stared at each other, eyes full of words they’d only exchange after Tyler went to bed. 

They hung a cloth over the television. His mother threw the newspaper away unread. 

His father started working later, and on those nights his mother would sit in the front parlor, eyes locked on the driveway, waiting with one hand pressed tightly to her mouth for him to come home. 

“Mom?” Tyler hovered in the doorway. “Is everything alright?” 

She took her hand away from her mouth, smoothing the sleeves of her blouse in a reflexive, absent manner. “Everything’s fine.” The forced line of her smile trembled. “You should go to bed. You have a game tomorrow.” Her eyes were already back out the window. 

“Mom.” He tried again, “Mom, please. I know something’s wrong. What – ” 

She turned then and softened. She came over and brought his face down to hers and kissed his forehead. She wrapped her arms around him. She seemed so small, and when he held her close her could smell the faint traces of her perfume – gardenia and lilac – delicate and dusty. “Please tell me what’s wrong. I can help. I can – ” 

“Oh, Tyler.” She smoothed back his hair. “We are Rome in 376. The barbarians are at the gate.” 

 

 

“There’s water.” 

Pearson’s looking at him, stopped in the middle of the trail, and Tyler blinks, trying to shake the ache of the memory of his mother’s face, the ghost of the smell of flowers. 

“Water,” Pearson repeats. “There’s water here, and we should think about stopping, because I don’t know when we’ll find it again.” 

Tyler looks past him: water runs down the slick rock face in front of them, a miniature waterfall that flows across the trail and down towards the road below. “Okay. That makes sense.” 

They catch the water in cupped hands, cool and clear with the slightly alkaline taste of limestone. They drop their bags in a copse of trees a few yards beyond, where the ground is soft with fallen needles, and the air is heavy with the smell of cedar. 

The sun’s starting to drop, and amongst the trees everything seems muffled. Isolated. Pearson rolls his shoulders and stretches. “How far do you think we came today?” 

It’s almost impossible to guess, and Tyler shrugs. “Maybe 20 miles? Tomorrow, we can go down to the road and check for signs, get a better idea.” 

Pearson looks like he has mixed feelings about heading down to the road. A tight, unhappy curve to his mouth. Or maybe he’s just unhappy to be here with Tyler. Or maybe he’s thinking about Manchester, and what it might hold. “Pears?” 

Pearson smoothes his features out, and when he looks up at Tyler, his face is unreadable. “Yeah?” 

Tyler’s lost whatever he was going to ask him. He hesitates, stumbling. “Uh. You want to eat?” 

Pearson nods without changing expression. He produces more protein bars from the sack, an apple that they pass back and forth, trading bites. 

After they eat, Pearson wanders over to where the water cascades down the rock. He rinses his mouth and splashes his face. Then he strips to the waist, washes his neck and chest. The light’s starting to fail, but Tyler can see the goose bumps standing all up and down his arms. Pearson glances over and meets Tyler’s gaze. 

Tyler looks away. 

He busies himself hanging whatever things they have that are still damp across the lower branches of the pines to dry. Hopefully it’ll stay clear overnight. Everything else gets stuffed back in the laundry sack. Tyler punches it a couple times, aiming for pillow-shaped. He spreads the blanket out across the flattest part of the forest floor. The idea that he’s preparing a bed for them makes him blush a little, even though it’s dumb. Even though they spent last night sleeping next to each other, and there’s no reason to be weird about it. He lies down on his side, his back to Pearson, but he can hear him approach. He listens to Pearson kick off his shoes. There’s just a beat of hesitation before Pearson lies down next to him. He puts his back up against Tyler’s back. The soles of his sock-clad feet press up against Tyler’s, a weird sort of intimacy. Tyler can feel him shifting a little, settling. 

“’Night.” 

Tyler closes his eyes. “Goodnight.” 

 

 

Tyler wakes in the dark, disoriented. He’s cold – cold air seeps down the back of his neck. A draft in the dorms, or maybe someone’s left a window open. Tyler shifts, he reaches for his blankets but he’s lost them somewhere. His bed feels hard beneath him and everything is hazy, his eyelids heavy, his thoughts slow. He can barely make out the trees around them – and it comes back in pieces, his brain starting to wake up. They’re outside. They’re sleeping under the trees. Him and Pearson. 

Tyler shivers. He pulls his hood back up from where it’s slipped and pushes himself up on his elbows. Pearson has rolled away from him. He’s lying on his back, fingers laced behind his head. Still, but he looks over when Tyler moves. “You’re not sleeping,” Tyler says. It comes out mumbled. His tongue is thick in his mouth, the words hard to find. 

Pearson shrugs. He looks away from Tyler. He seems to be watching the sliver of moon as it disappears and reappears from behind clouds. 

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Tyler rubs his eyes. “You should sleep. You’ll be tired.” In his head, it makes sense. 

“I don’t sleep much.” He sounds much more awake than Tyler. Pearson rolls onto his side and props himself on one elbow. “Why aren’t _you_ sleeping?” His face looks washed out, skin all gray in the moonlight, expression half-hidden by shadow. 

“I’m cold.” It comes out as a thick whisper, needy and hoarse, and Tyler wants the words back. 

Pearson would be totally justified in rolling his eyes, but he just looks at Tyler. He edges back in closer, one hand reaching out to touch Tyler’s shoulder. “Roll back over.” 

Pearson’s not quite looking at him, his features indistinct in the dark, his voice low and a little rough. He pushes at Tyler’s shoulder, but light, cautious. Tyler rolls back onto his side, slow, but he’s wide awake now. Wide awake at just this touch and Pearson’s quiet words. Pearson’s behind him. Invisible. Tyler lets Pears gently encourage him onto his side. He stares straight ahead, at the tree trunks at eye level, and the gentle sway of the lower branches. Any second now, Pearson’s gonna take his hand away. 

Pearson settles in close to him. He tucks his knees behind Tyler’s knees. His chest is pressed against Tyler’s back. He slides his arm around Tyler’s waist. 

Tyler holds his breath. 

“Is this okay?” It’s barely a whisper. He’s so close Tyler can feel the warmth of Pearson’s breath on the back of his neck. 

Tyler swallows. There’s a hum building in his head, an odd flutter in his chest. He can feel the weight of Pears’ arm across his ribs. Pearson’s nose brushes the back of Tyler’s neck, and it’s one long line of contact from his head all the way down to his feet. This is so wildly beyond the bounds of okay. This is terrible. His heart’s beating too fast. And he’s wide awake – too warm now, hot all over and blushing in the dark – which is stupid. Tyler is stupid. Tyler needs to stop being stupid. He nods, very small, not trusting his voice. 

Pearson shifts a little behind him. Pillowing his head over his arm. Making himself comfortable, pressed up against Tyler. Tyler squeezes his eyes shut. 

Pearson’s so close it hurts, sets off something cold and sharp that ricochets around his chest. Tyler tries to take a breath; his throat’s so tight it comes in stuttered. 

“Go to sleep, Toff.” Pearson’s voice is thin and strained, and it almost sounds like a plea, something needy in it. Tyler can feel his chest as it rises and falls. Tyler shivers. He lies as still as he can, and waits for sleep. 

 

 

In the morning, Tyler is alone again. 

He sits up, blinking, weak morning light coming in patchy and faded through the trees. He touches the spot next to him on the blanket, and it’s cool to the touch. For one long moment, Tyler’s convinced it was a dream. That he dreamt falling asleep with Pears wrapped around him. Which – wouldn’t that be new levels of pathetic? Tyler stands and stretches, listening to his joints creak and pop. 

He can’t see Pears anywhere in the immediate vicinity. But Pears always wakes up early; he probably went off to wash his face or rinse his mouth or piss or something. Tyler wanders down the trail a bit, and then he turns and wanders back the way they came, but there’s no sign of Pearson in either direction. 

Tyler doubles back to the waterfall, as though maybe he just missed Pearson the first time. But Pearson isn’t there. He’s not back down the trail. He’s not anywhere. 

Tyler turns in a circle, a little shot of adrenaline lancing through his system. The trees seem dense and dark, and press close. “Pears?” 

He doesn’t dare be too loud. He listens, ears straining, but there’s nothing but the wind through the trees and a lonely crow calling. No response. Not even the crackle of something moving in the woods. 

“Pears?” He does raise his voice this time, nerves going on high alert, eyes scanning the close horizon, and he turns on his heel, heading back to where he left the blanket, fighting the urge to run. “Pears!” 

“Hey.” 

Tyler spins. Pearson is standing right behind him. His face is pale, dark circles under his eyes, but real and solid and right in front of him. Tyler grabs him with both hands, fingers clutching at Pearson’s sleeves. 

“Toff, what – ” 

Pearson is the only familiar thing in the whole world. Tyler doesn’t dare look away. Doesn’t dare let go. He can’t make his heart slow down. He can’t make his voice work. 

Pearson’s staring at him like Tyler’s gone crazy. 

“You weren’t here.” Tyler manages. “I woke up and you weren’t here. You were gone.” 

Pearson’s hands catch ahold of Tyler’s. “I just walked down a bit. I wanted to find the best way down to the road.” He’s trying to unwind Tyler’s grasp. “I thought you were gonna sleep longer.” 

He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. 

Pearson is infuriating. Pearson is terrible. Tyler thumps a fist into his chest. “Don’t _do_ that.” 

Pearson flinches under the strike and frowns. “You were the one who said we should go down to the road.” Like that’s the issue at hand. Like that’s what’s at all important here. 

Tyler stares at him. Pearson could just take off. Pearson could just go off on his own and be fine with it. He thinks Tyler is just so much dead weight. And the fact that Tyler’s scared doesn’t mean anything to him. Pearson’s an _asshole_. Tyler’s anger crackles inside him. He shoves Pears away, hard. 

Pearson looks surprised. He has to take a step to catch himself. “What the fuck? What’s wrong with you?” 

“What’s wrong with _me_?” Every single fucking thing is wrong with Tyler. But fuck Pearson. “Fuck you.” 

“Oh, for – ” Pearson rolls his eyes. He rubs his forehead and gives Tyler a look. “Christ, I wish Joner was here. Or Vey. Or – ” 

Tyler can feel his face get hot, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He swipes at his face. “Fuck you. You hate me, I get it. You wish you were out here with anybody but me. Trust me, I fucking get it – ” 

“What the fuck? Why do you think everything has to be about you?” He tips his head, mocking. “Poor fucking Tyler. I don’t know why you’re so surprised no one likes you. If you want people to like you, you could try just not being an _asshole_ – ” 

“ _I’m_ an asshole?” Tyler tries to shove him again, but Pearson catches his hands. Catches his wrists. The flare of pain in his left wrist is instant and brilliant and white-hot. Tyler yelps, and he brings his right fist up on instinct, catches Pearson under the jaw. 

Pearson lets go instantly. 

“Don’t touch me.” Tyler stumbles backwards, arm clutched to chest. “Don’t fucking touch me.” 

A few yards ahead, a group of crows launches into the air, raucous and sudden, and Tyler and Pearson go still. Blood pounds in Tyler’s ears; his face feels hot. Both of them wait, frozen, everything still and quiet around them, like the forest is holding its breath. 

Pearson’s breathing hard. His lips are pressed together, his mouth white. “This is stupid.” 

There’s an angry retort instantly at his lips, but Tyler swallows it back. This is stupid. 

“Let’s get our shit together.” Pearson starts stuffing their clothing back into the bag, pausing when Tyler doesn’t move. “Come on, Toff. We got ground to cover. Let’s go.” 

Pearson’s right of course, but it doesn’t make the anger go away. Hot and furious under his skin, itching to get out. But if he’s not with Pearson, then he’s alone. 

Tyler drops his eyes without a word. He follows. 

 

 

Tyler’s first fight in junior happened two periods into his first away game. Soo City had this winger, Cooper, a short, square kid. He kept pestering Tyler. He crossed his stick over Tyler’ while they were waiting for the puck to drop. “Sixteen,” he hissed. “Sixteen… sixteen… sixteen.” When Tyler finally looked over at him, he spat on Tyler’s skate. 

Tyler worked his mouth guard between his teeth. 

Skating up ice, Cooper dug the butt end of his stick into Tyler’s kidney. Tyler pivoted, drifting backwards. Cooper was watching him. The rest of Cooper’s line on the ice was watching him. Tyler’s own teammates on the bench, they were watching him, too. Everybody waiting to see what he was gonna do. Waiting to see what the _Toffoli_ kid was gonna do. Tyler felt a flush climb over his skin. 

Wayne’s advice about fighting, like Wayne’s advice about most things, had been simple: get the jump on them. Be faster than they were. “You gotta be mean enough to hit first.” Wayne paused, lips curving into a crooked smile. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem for you.” 

Wayne had twisted a hand in Tyler’s jersey, holding him at arm’s length, and shook him a little. “Not right under the collar, see? Off to the side a little so he can’t get his arm up as well.” Then he brought his other fist across his body in slow motion. “Keep your thumb down, out of the way.” His fist grazed Tyler’s chin. Wayne smirked at Tyler’s lack of response. “Not always gonna be love taps.” 

They were alone, covered in the sweat of a hard practice and the rink was still and quiet all around them. Tyler raised his arms and Wayne laughed as Tyler successfully mimicked the gesture, his fist brushing across Wayne’s jaw. “Atta boy, Ty.” 

Tyler cracked a smile. None of it had seemed real. None of it had seemed violent in the least. The two of them laughing, as far removed from pain as Tyler could imagine. 

In Sault Ste Marie, Tyler waited until the next face off, then nailed Cooper with an elbow, and in the space between Cooper dropping his gloves and getting his fists up, Tyler managed to get a grip on his sweater, and catch him with a solid right hook. He got two more in before somebody caught him by the collar and dragged him down. 

He took a black eye and a sliced hand home to his mother, who was not pleased. She offered no commentary, but she looked pointedly from Tyler to his father and cleared her throat. 

His dad looked up from the blueprints he was bent over; he seemed rather abashed. “Elizabeth,” he said. “It’s hockey.” 

She watched Tyler’s father a moment longer and then shook her head. She reached a hand up to touch Tyler’s face, turning his chin this way and that. She finally sighed and pursed her lips, and said, “You. Kitchen. Now.” 

Tyler took a seat at the kitchen table and she held ice to his face and kissed the crown of his head, her fingers lingering in his hair. 

Not all their family arguments about hockey were so easily resolved. 

Tyler remembers spending nights crouched in the dark hallway outside the living room, listening to the conversations his parents had after he was supposed to be in bed, about how and whether he should be allowed to play at all. 

He remembers his mother’s voice, strident, “Hockey is supposed to be for people who don’t have other options – ” 

“I can’t believe you’re arguing against this on the basis of egalitarianism. Hockey is probably the closest thing to a meritocracy Tyler’s going to – ” 

“How are you going to feel when he takes that chance away from some kid who needs it? What are you going to say to him then?” Her voice was high and tight, and tucked away in the dark, Tyler squeezed his eyes shut. 

“It’s junior – if Tyler’s taking their roster spot at junior, they’re not going to make the cut at the next level anyway.” There was a pause and the sounds of him crossing the room. “Junior,” he repeated, softer, soft enough Tyler had to strain to hear. “It’s still just a game.” 

Her voice was calmer, but no less insistent. “It’s not. You of all people should know it’s not.” 

The silence stretched, and in the dark Tyler counted one beat, then two, then three. “If he’s on the team,” his dad said, note of finality in his voice. “It’ll be because he earned a spot.” 

 

 

They’ve descend all the way down the slope, and they walk along the shoulder of the road long enough for the sun to start climbing, in silence the whole way. 

Until Pearson says, “Talk about something.” 

There’s still a bit of low fog clinging, making the scenery look hazy and the sounds muted. Pearson’s voice seems very loud and very sudden. Tyler looks from the distant trees to him, and it takes a second for his eyes to refocus on Pearson’s face when he can still hear his father’s voice echoing in his head. “What? Talk about what?” 

Pearson slows to walk next to him. “Something. Anything. This place is creepy.” He shuffles the grocery sack from one shoulder to the other and glances around. The road is creepy: silent where there should be cars, abandoned where there should be people. They’re still too far north for there to be anything but trees and hills all around them, and it’s just the mile markers that prove they’re actually making progress. Pearson darts a look at Tyler. “What are you thinking about?” 

He didn’t seem to care about having Tyler around before, but apparently _now_ Tyler’s company is wanted. Now Tyler’s good enough to talk to. Tyler scowls. He thinks about ignoring Pearson, out of spite, even if it is sort of creepy out here. Just to give Pearson a taste of what it would be like to really be alone and see if he likes that. 

But he really only considers that for a second, and then he shrugs. “Home,” he says, being honest. “My parents.” 

Pearson nods a little, not looking up, and kicks at some of the loose gravel at the edge of the asphalt. “Your dad is some kind of big shot up in Toronto, right?” 

Tyler’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean. He thinks about the conversations he and Pearson had, lying in the dark, about Tyler’s family and a million other things. He thinks about Soupy and everything he had to say about Tyler’s wealth. He thinks, Pearson said _is_ – _is_ and not _was_ – but whatever Pearson’s thinking, it hardly matters. Because it’s not true anymore. His dad’s no big shot anymore. His dad’s not even in Toronto anymore. Tyler doesn’t know where his dad is. 

Pearson’s looking at him. 

They could walk from here all the way south to the Red  & Navy, and Tyler would still be trying to explain all that. Tyler shrugs. “Who told you that?” 

“It’s just – ” Pearson hesitates “ – what some of the guys said.” He clears his throat; there’s an awkward hitch in his voice that makes everything almost, but not quite, a question. “They said that’s why you didn’t get drafted, because you got to pick your team. They said that’s why you got put straight onto the first line.” 

That’s not true. None of it’s true, but that last part is really not true. Tyler’s first shift on the first line had come thirty-two games and twenty-odd minutes into his rookie year. Kozun had played shitty the whole first, and in the second, Coach Morris barked, “Kozy, sit your ass down. Toffoli, you’re out with Vey and Andy.” 

Tyler scored twice. And that had been that. Kozun didn’t get back on the first line, and Tyler wore the black practice jersey the rest of the year. 

Except Tyler made the mistake of being happy about it. Tyler made the mistake of being proud. 

“Oh, look at Toffoli. Look at the big shot,” Soupy said when Tyler went past in the dining hall. Soupy was sitting with Hicks and Kozun, and he grinned wide. 

Tyler tried smiling back, because they were laughing, and his fingers flexed on his tray, because Manchester still felt new, and Tyler could hardly go an hour without feeling lost in some way. He set his tray down. 

Soupy lost his smile. And the look he gave Tyler made Tyler shrink back a little. “Not here,” Soupy said, pushing Tyler’s tray back toward him. And he wasn’t laughing. The look of disgust was clear on his face. It wasn’t a joke at all. 

Stupid, how much that still cuts at him. How Tyler still flushes at the memory. _What some of the guys said_. When they were no doubt busy filling Pearson in on how awful Tyler was. Because it’s not like Tyler’s a person. It’s not like Tyler has feelings. And it doesn’t matter that none of them knew jack shit about Tyler, or his life, or his family, of course Pearson believes them. 

Tyler’s hands curl into fists in his pockets. “Is that why you hate me so much?” 

Pearson pauses for half a step and then kicks at another rock. “I don’t – I don’t _hate_ you.” 

Tyler tries to laugh, except it comes out so choked it probably just makes him sound more pathetic. “None of that stuff’s even true.” He risks a look at Pearson’s face. 

Pearson’s head is bowed, his lip caught between his teeth. When he looks over, Tyler can see his long lashes, and the slight flush in his cheeks, an uncertain expression on his face, and he’s so lovely Tyler – aches. 

It hurts, it actually hurts up under his breastbone, sharp and cold and Tyler has to stop. “Do you believe me?” 

Pearson stops right next to him, but he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t say anything. Tyler has to look away, looks down at the ground. He can feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes, for what must be the millionth time in the last two days. He pulls his hood up. Not that Pearson’s not gonna know he’s crying, but maybe he can at least pretend to have some privacy. 

“I believe you.” 

Tyler looks up at him. Pearson’s looking back, his face serious, his eyes locked on Tyler’s. His gaze doesn’t falter, but it also doesn’t anything away. 

“I do,” Pearson says, quieter this time. 

Tyler wonders if you really can tell if a person’s lying, just by looking at them. Or if that’s something that’s only true in books. He looks for a long time, but all he sees in Pearson’s eyes, is the reflection of himself, staring back. 

Pearson clears his throat. “We should keep moving.” 

Tyler re-shoulders his bag, and turns to go on. 

And there, standing not ten feet in front of them, is a woman with a gun. 

 

 

It’s a shotgun. Held by steady, unflinching hands, trained directly at Tyler’s midsection. Tyler freezes. 

Pearson’s hands creep up, achingly slow. “Oh,” he breathes. “Please don’t shoot us.” 

Her eyes flick back and forth between them. The gun doesn’t move. “Who are you?” She has the broad, flat vowels of a native of the Yellow. 

Adrenaline is singing up and down Tyler’s veins. He can feel the hair stand on the back of his neck. He looks at Pearson out of the corner of his eye. 

“I’m Tanner,” Pearson says, picking his words slow and cautious. “This is Tyler.” 

She’s wearing cargo pants, mottled green and drab. A quick-dry shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal the ropey muscles of her forearms. Her hair is hidden underneath a broad-brimmed hat in the same palette of forest colors. She looks way better prepared to be out here than they are. 

But most importantly, she’s not wearing Tags. Tyler clears his throat. “Hockey players,” Tyler says, trying to keep his voice even. “We play – we played for the Monarchs, until – ” He stops. 

“Union hit the Monarchs’ compound two days ago.” Her voice is unmoved, as if reporting the weather. The gun still doesn’t waver. 

Tyler flinches, and for a second, in his head, he’s there again, with the noise all around him and the fire blooming to life, a metallic taste in his mouth and the adrenaline hot and heavy under his skin. “Yeah. They did.” 

“You were there?” 

He nods, stiff and jerky, and Pears does too. 

“Then how come you’re standing here?” 

“We ran.” Tyler can feel the blood coloring his cheeks. “We just – ran.” 

She’s studying them, looking at their clothes, he realizes. Taking in the Monarchs’ patch on his hoodie. She looks at their bare throats. The gun, ever so slowly, lowers. 

Tyler exhales. 

“Where you headed?” 

Pearson says, “Manchester.” 

The woman tips her head. “Not sure what you’ll find, but I guess you’re probably better off headed south, anyways.” Her eyes keep darting back and forth, Tyler to Pearson to the trees behind them and back. 

Pearson’s eyes cut over to Tyler, and then back to her. “Have you been there? Do you know if – ” He stops, and Tyler’s not sure what he was going to ask. _If it’s fine? If it’s still there?_

She studies them, her eyes still making those careful, quick cuts back and forth. “You have a gun on you?” 

Tyler shakes his head. 

“No weapons?” She’s eyeing the bags they’re holding. 

“No.” Tyler looks at Pearson. Pearson shakes his head no. 

Her chin comes up. “Hockey players, huh?” 

Pearson grins at her, that charming, brilliant smile Tyler’s seen him use on fans, on girls at the rink. “Yes.” 

Her expression says she’s weighing something, and Tyler holds himself still, uncertain of what’s being decided. “I may or may not know something about Manchester. Are you hungry?” 

There’s no way for them to discuss whether it’s a good idea, but they exchange quick glances. Pearson’s gaze flickering to his, both of them trying to weigh _gun_ versus _food._ And maybe more tempting than that, the promise of information. Pearson looks back at her, wide-eyed. “Very.” 

Her weight shifts. She tips her head towards the hill on the other side of the highway. “Our camp is this way – if you want a meal.” 

“Thank you.” Pearson’s still doing his PR smile. 

She leads them up an old logging road, climbing the switchbacks at a quick, steady clip. “I’m Nell,” she calls over her shoulder. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Nell,” Pearson answers, automatic, polite. 

The logging road takes them to an old park ranger’s station, apparently abandoned by its original owners, and co-opted by Nell as her camp. 

As they draw close, there’s a flash of movement, and a child runs out to meet them, letting the screen door crash behind her. A girl. Maybe seven. 

“Grace.” There’s a harsh note in Nell’s voice, and the girl stops short. She looks at Tyler and at Pearson, and her eyes grow wide. Her face turns back to Nell. 

Nell shakes her head in mild correction and waves her over. 

The girl goes her at a quick trot, and Nell presses the child against her side. The girl peers around her legs, looking at Tyler again. 

“You know better than to come flying out,” Nell murmurs, and the girl hides her face. “This is Tanner and Tyler,” Nell says, raising her voice. She looks back at them. “This is my niece, Grace.” For just a moment, her face is very hard and very cold, more frightening than the gun pointed at them earlier, and an even clearer threat. Her look says this child is something precious. Her look tells Tyler everything he needs to know about what will happen if they step out of line. Her hand rests on Grace’s shoulder, and when the girl looks up, Nell’s expression softens. 

Tyler feels hesitant to go any closer. It’s not that he doesn’t like kids – plenty of kids came to their games. They were the best fans, in a lot of ways: easy to please, happy just to be there. 

It’s not the kid. It’s that Nell’s looking at him like he’s a threat. 

His parents were both good with people. Lots of people used to come up to his dad after games – they’d want to shake his hand and say thank you and say how nice it was to have junior hockey back in Scarborough. And Tyler’s dad always stayed and listened to every single person, and shook every single one of their hands, and Tyler knew better than to whine that he was bored, that he was ready to go. He knew this was important. 

“Respect,” his dad said to him after, when they were finally alone, “goes both ways.” 

To the people in the crowd, his dad said, “Of course, of course. You can always come and talk to me, if you need anything.” And Tyler could tell from his voice that he meant it. 

Tyler swallows, and when he speaks, he tries to make his voice sound like his father’. “We’re very grateful for your hospitality.” 

Nell’s eyes are sharp and watchful on his face. “You’re welcome.” 

A second woman emerges from the ranger’s station, and Nell’s gaze shifts to her. “That’s my sister, Eva.” 

From the porch, Eva raises a hand. Tyler sketches a wave back. 

Nell says, “My husband and brother-in-law are out scouting Manchester. They’ll be back this evening. They’ll be able to tell you more about what the city looks like then, if you want to stick around.” 

Pearson glances at him, as if checking in, before he answers her. “Thank you, that would be – helpful.” 

Nell smiles, slight and uncertain, like she’s not quite sure what to make of them. She says, “Eva’ll have lunch ready.” 

The inside of the ranger’s station smells like food. It smells like meat and cooking vegetables, and Tyler can pick out each individual scent in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible a week ago. His stomach claws up against his spine. He and Pears shuffle into the room, which is clean and bright, and Tyler is abruptly conscious of how muddy they still are, how ragged. 

His mother would be mortified. 

“Hockey players,” Nell tells Eva as they walk in, and Eva’s eyes get big. Her face is shaped like her daughter’s. 

Nell waves them towards the table anyway, oblivious to their state or willing to overlook it. A table in the common room that once must have held brochures or artifacts has been re-purposed, five camp chairs pulled up to it make it a dining table. An old cloth laid over the top makes it Tyler’s most formal dinner in weeks. Eva disappears into what must be the kitchen and returns with a bowl of stew in each hand. She sets these in front of them. 

She goes back for two more – one for Nell and one for Grace. She’s still standing, and Tyler’s torn between the food that’s inches away and old habits that say he should wait for Eva to sit first. He looks up at her. 

“Please,” she says. “Eat.” 

Tyler eats. He can taste meat – something savory and gamey. He can taste carrot and tomato and each kernel of corn is like a tiny universe of sweetness. The bread Eva sets out tastes like yeast and salt and even the wheat itself seems to hold a miracle of new flavors. Food – not just protein bars. Read food. Nell watches them scrape their bowls clean with a vaguely impressed look. Eva provides seconds without asking. Tyler eats the second bowl more slowly, holding it in his hands and letting the warmth seep into fingers. 

When Nell finishes, she says, “The Union has been pulling back, to the north. Towards Toronto. I suppose we have hockey players to thank for that. At least in part.” She pauses, her eyes raking over them again. “But they’ve been razing the ground as they go. We heard rumors they hit Manchester. But we don’t know for sure. That’s why Eric and Paul are out scouting. To see what’s left.” 

Pearson’s spoon has frozen, halfway to his mouth. “Why would they do that? Why would they burn their own cities?” 

Nell turns a mug of tea in her hands. “Worked for them the last time the northeast rioted.” There’s a distant bitterness in her tone. “And this time – with the main uprising happening in the west, no one expected things here to fall apart as quickly as they did.” She shakes her head. “But there have been a lot of angry people here, for a long time. Whatever the Union can’t fortify, they’ll destroy to make sure no one else can use it. It’s a desperation move.” 

Pearson swallows. “What would that mean for Manchester? If they did hit it?” 

“They don’t leave much standing,” Nell says. 

 

 

Eva asks them if they’d like to wash and sets them up outside on the cement slab of a back porch with towels and soap. She bring out a big pot of water, her face flushed from the steam rising from it. 

“Oh – ” Pearson stands, as if to help. “Can I – ” 

“No, no, you’re fine,” she says. She sets it down and straightens. She tucks a stray curl behind her ear. 

“Thank you,” Pearson says. 

“Of course. We know – well, I know – how much hockey, what it meant – ” She stops, flustered. “Anyway. It’s my pleasure.” 

Tyler looks at her, looking at Pearson, and Pearson looking at here, and frowns. 

She drops her eyes and gestures towards the water. “Be careful, it’s hot.” Then turns and shuts the door behind her. 

Pearson watches her leave. He turns back towards Tyler. “Hot water.” He sounds impressed. 

“Yeah.” Tyler knows the feeling. “Who gets it first?” 

Pearson grins. “Arm wrestle?” 

Tyler frowns. “My wrist.” 

“Okay. I’ll come up with a number between one and ten, and if you can guess it, you get it first.” 

“You’ll cheat.” 

Pearson smirks. “I might.” 

Tyler sighs. “Sewer ball?” 

“We don’t have a ball.” 

Tyler looks around. “The soap?” 

Pearson looks thoughtful. “What if we juggle the soap. Whoever gets the most touches wins?” 

It’s entirely possible the water’s gonna be cold by the time they’ve got this decided. “Done.” 

Pearson balances the bar of soap on the middle part of his foot. He makes it to twelve. Tyler goes out at nine. Pearson celebrates with upraised arms. He strips his shirt off and pitches it at Tyler. “Undefeated.” He smirks. 

“Idiot,” Tyler says, but Pearson just grins. And when they’re not hungry, and they’re not cold, and Tyler is going to be clean, it’s a lot easier to smile back. 

Pearson grins once more and strips his shirt and hoodie off, all in one go. Tyler looks away. 

The water is an impressive shade of gray by the time they’re both clean. Tyler pulls his hoodie back on, does up his pants. Inside, Pearson’s sitting in front of the fireplace, right up on the hearth. He looks up when Tyler settles next to him. “Better, right?” 

“Yeah.” Tyler towels at his hair. “Way better.” 

Pearson falls quiet. Eva and Grace have disappeared from the main room, and the only sound in the station is the gentle thud and clank of metal as Nell, bent over a table on the other side of the room, disassembles and cleans her shotgun. The metal pieces gleam in the pool of lamplight, and her hands move with steady, methodical precision. Pearson watches her work for a moment and then looks down at his hands and says, his voice pitched low, “What are we gonna we do if we get to Manchester and we can’t find anybody?” 

It’s a terrible question. It’s an impossible question. Pearson might as well have asked the Sphinx’ riddle or how a raven is like a writing desk. Tyler closes his eyes and he has to fight off a rush of fear. The map of the known world ends in Manchester. They have to find something there. “We’ll find somebody in Manchester.” 

“What if we don’t?” There’s more heat to Pearson’s tone, and his eyes flick over to Nell to see if she heard. 

She doesn’t look up. Her hands don’t pause in their movements. 

Tyler catches his lip between his teeth. He looks at the logs shifting in the fire. All the possibilities of what to do seem equally ridiculous. Ask Nell if they can just hang around with her and her family? Wander around the Yellow hoping they run into one of their friends before they run into the Union? That panicky, trapped flutter is building again in Tyler’s chest. They have no place to go. If Tyler had any clue where to start looking for his parents, he could. But he doesn’t. Toronto is home, but they’re definitely not heading to Toronto, not when it’s the Union epicenter. And Pearson’s home, “You’re from Kitchener, right?” 

“I’m _not_ going back there,” Pearson says. 

Pearson’s home is out of the question, too. That really only leaves one option. “If we can’t find anybody in Manchester,” Tyler says, “then we’ll go to the Black. We’ll go find Dean.” 

Pearson’s eyes meet his. “That’s a really, really long way, Toff.” 

He doesn’t say no, though. He doesn’t say Tyler’ll have to go without him. And earlier, he said _we._ “I know,” Tyler says. “We’ll figure it out. We will.” 

 

 

Eva brings them tea in front of the fire. She sets the cups in front of them. Tyler’s stomach still feels vaguely distended from shoving as much food into it as possible at lunch, but he holds the mug against his wrist, and lets the warmth seep into the joint. Eva settles in one of the chairs near them. Tyler glances from the fire to her, and says, “Would you prefer a spot here? We could – ” 

“No, no. I’m fine.” She smiles at them. 

Pearson smiles back at her. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how excited I am about being clean. And warm. And inside.” 

He manages to look touchingly grateful, basically beaming and flushed from sitting so close to the fire. A warm, open note in his voice and his face turned up towards hers. 

He wants Eva to like him. Tyler thinks: Eva’s pretty. And then he thinks that has nothing to do with it, and then he thinks that maybe that has everything to do with it, and then he has to close his eyes for a second and tell his brain to shut up. 

Eva says, “It must have been quite rough for you – out in the woods on your own.” 

Pearson laughs. “Pretty different from what we’re used to, that’s for sure. Right, Tyler?” 

Tyler opens his eyes. Pearson’s even leaning towards her, his hands folded in his lap and smiling, bland and charming, like they’re lost pets brought in from the cold. Tyler’s mouth twists. “Yeah.” It comes out a little rough. 

Pearson flashes an irritated look at him. 

Tyler clears his throat. He makes himself smile at Eva. “When did you – how long have you guys been out here in the station? Since the Cup Finals?” 

“Oh, no.” Her face grows somber. “No, we left before that. We lived in Concord, but we left after Sarah – after Nell’s daughter was taken.” 

Pearson goes very still. Tyler looks away. 

“You know, of course, that it’s coming. That they’ll turn eighteen, and get their work placement, and be sent away.” She pauses. “But it’s different when it actually happens. So many people – ” Her voice drifts. “So many disappeared – for work, or just… gone.” 

Tyler’s chest feels tight, and the room feels too quiet. The sound of Nell working in the background has stopped. 

“And Grace – ” Eva pauses, and her throat works, and she has to gather herself before she can continue. “We decided it was worth the risk. To leave. To live – off the grid, if you will.” 

The sound of an engine drifts in from the yard, and Tyler’s heart rate kicks up, automatic, but Eva doesn’t look concerned. She smiles at them, tight through the eyes, and rises. “That’ll be Paul and Eric.” 

A moment later, an ancient-looking Forest Service truck chugs up the last turn of the hill, and pulls alongside the station. 

Nell and Eva go to the door, Grace flying in to join them, and Tyler and Pearson stand. 

Eric and Paul turn out to be broad, flannel-clad men. The kind of men who before all this probably brought down trees, or worked the mills. The same sort of men who used to populate the stands at Monarchs games – real hardshell types, who cared less about the score and more about the team working as hard as they did, who had plenty of words for the other squad, and weren’t shy about sharing their opinions with the ref. It’s late in the afternoon. The open door lets in long red light and a blast of air so cold, so harsh against the warmth of the cabin, that for a second, Tyler could believe himself back at the rink. 

Except Eric and Paul each have a handgun jammed into the waistband of their pants. And whatever else they might look like, that’s different. That didn’t happen at the rink, and Tyler’s eyes linger on this steel addition. 

Eric and Paul stop in the entryway, both of them looking at Tyler and Pearson. 

“Found these two down on the highway,” Nell says, gesturing at them. “Tanner. And Tyler.” She pauses. “This is my husband, Eric.” 

The first man shifts, shoulders rolling back just a hair. He’s just as tall as they are, and he looks them each in the eye. 

Tyler looks back. Eric holds his gaze and a prickling awareness sets in, crawls up and down his spine. Tyler’s standing in this man’s house, fed by this man’s wife. Barefoot and unarmed in front of him, and it suddenly seems careless. Seems dangerous. The fact that he’s here at all is due to this man’s grace, and the weight of that is suddenly heavy on his shoulder. Tyler drops his eyes. 

“And this is my brother-in-law, Paul,” Nell continues. 

The other man tips his head at them, perfunctory. He shifts his attention almost immediately to Eva and Grace. The former touches his arm. The latter lifts her hands, calling to him to pick her up. Paul obliges, and Grace’s arms latch automatic around his neck. 

Nell says, “Tanner and Tyler are hockey players. They played for the Monarchs.” 

Eric has a square face, salt-and-pepper hair, and the same quick, certain movements as his wife. He has the same sharp, assessing gaze, and he points it at them. His expression says he hasn’t missed the Monarchs patch on Tyler’s hoodie. The track pants in Monarchs colors. But not, necessarily, that he believes them. He looks at Nell, a twist to his mouth that probably means more to her than it does to Tyler. “Is that right?” 

She lifts an eyebrow, as if saying he’ll have to draw his own conclusions. 

Tyler swallows and presses his hands to his sides to keep them from twisting. 

Paul sets Grace down and comes to stand next to Eric. Paul says, “We used to go to Monarchs games, when we could.” 

Pearson smiles, open and friendly, back to that overly bright expression. “Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Eric motions to Pearson. “What’d you say your name was?” 

“Tanner, sir.” 

“Tanner Pearson?” 

Pearson smiles even wider. He nods. 

“I was at the game where you scored a short-handed goal.” Paul sounds less skeptical than Eric, maybe even impressed. 

“Against Bridgeport?” Pearson laughs. “That was a fun one. I had to clean out the bus on account of that goal though, the Captain said I was making the rest of the team look bad.” 

Tyler doesn’t remember if that was true or not, but it sounds good and if it was a lie, you’d never know from listening to Pears. 

Eric shifts his attention back to Tyler. “And you?” 

“Tyler. Sir.” 

Eric squints, focusing closer on Tyler’s face. “Tyler – Toffoli?” 

Everyone is focused on Tyler. Everyone seems to have gone quite still. Eric’s eyes narrow. 

The shades in the station’s front room are drawn back, and the light makes long shadows, and the only things moving are the dust motes dancing in the patch of late sunlight. Tyler’s pulse kicks up out of nowhere, a distant siren in his blood, and he shivers. The pause seems to stretch forever. And he has to swallow, his throat too dry to speak. He nods, slowly, once. “Yes.” 

 

 

The room explodes all at once. 

The word isn’t even out of his mouth before Eric grabs him, one hand taking hold of the front of Tyler’s hoodie, the other clasped hard around Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler stumbles backwards. He gives one sharp, startled yelp, and Eric hauls him up, slams back against the wall. 

Tyler can hear Pearson yell, and there’s a hundred noises, sudden and overlapping – Grace shrieking and Eva screaming, and the loud crash and clatter of something knocked over. Eric’s face fills his field of vision, everything else becomes a blur of movement behind him. Tyler scrambles on instinct, fists coming up, and he manages to knock one of Eric’s arms away. 

Eric lets go just for second, and then he has Tyler by the throat instead, thumb digging hard into the space between Tyler’s jaw and neck, and Tyler’s air is suddenly – gone. 

Eric shakes him. Tyler’s head snaps back, ricochets off the wall. All sound cuts out for a second, and then seeps back in slow and muffled like he’s underwater. Dark spots dance at the edge of his vision. Eric yells, right in Tyler’s face, close enough for Tyler to see the vein standing out in his forehead, but Tyler can’t focus, can only catch random words, and even then they don’t make sense. 

Eric shakes him, puts his face even closer, and says very slow, “where is Peter Toffoli?” 

Tyler can’t get any words out; he claws at Eric’s hand. 

“Are you on your way to meet your father?” 

Tyler tries to shake his head and can’t. Tries to speak and can’t, his throat will only make a series of wet clicks. Eric lets go and Tyler gasps, sucking in air. “I don’t know, I don’t know – ” 

Eric slams him against the wall again. Tyler’s ears ring, his teeth click together hard. Eric has a hand planted on his chest, and Tyler shoves at it, but Eric’s leaning into him, the full weight of his body pinning Tyler in place. Tyler pants, half-blind, half-desperate – 

Eric pulls his gun out. He jams the barrel right up into the soft space under Tyler’s jaw. “Where is he?” 

All the sound drops out, everything swallowed by a roaring noise in his ears. His vision goes gray. 

The first thing that comes back is the sound of breathing. Rough, irregular panting. His own breathing. And he can hear his own heartbeat, jackhammering too loud, too fast, inside his chest. He’s not sure if his eyes are open or closed. “I don’t know.” His voice doesn’t like his own. He rasps, too high, too fast. “I haven’t heard from my parents in two years. I swear, I don’t know – ” 

Eric’s sweating. Tyler can smell it. Eric’s face swims slowly into focus and Tyler see beads of it, standing out on Eric’s temples, his face a furious red. He jams the gun into Tyler’s throat so hard it forces his head back, so hard it’s difficult to swallow. 

Tyler can feel tears leaking down the sides of his face. 

His throat spasms, trying reflexively to swallow. Saliva fills his mouth, sour with the taste of bile. “I don’t know,” he wheezes, lips moving even though there’s no air to give sound to his words. “Please. Please.” 

Eric doesn’t move. 

Tyler’s going to die. Right here, in this room. He closes his eyes. 

Eric steps away. He lowers the gun. 

Tyler gags and coughs, slides slowly down the wall. His eyes are burning. He can’t see anything. He tries to wipe his face, but his hands are shaking too hard, stupid and uncoordinated. 

Eric looks down at him without any pity, without a hint of remorse. “Even if you don’t know where he is, I bet once he finds out we have you, he’ll turn up. I bet he’ll come looking.” He shakes his head. “And we’ll see how long he lasts then.” 

Tyler’s thoughts slip and spin. He can’t get purchase. He can’t make sense of it. He thinks: there must be some mistake. Eric must want someone else. Because, why – “My dad’s just an architect,” he says, voice raw and rasping. “Please – he’s just a builder. He didn’t do anything – ” 

Eric sinks down, so his face is level with Tyler’s, the gun still held loosely in one hand. “You used to be so untouchable.” 

Tyler stops speaking. 

Eric reaches out slow, and wraps his hand back around Tyler’s throat. No pressure behind it at all, warm, almost a caress. “Skating around in your little bubble, with that name on your back. And I bet it was even nicer when you were a kid.” 

Tyler stares at him, silent. Eric’s eyes are black and fixed on Tyler’s. Eric smiles, but there’s no warmth to it. No mirth. He shakes his head and adds just the tiniest bit of pressure to his grip on Tyler’s throat. “You believe it, don’t you? Your own bullshit, I can tell. You believe it.” 

Tyler doesn’t even try to fight. He goes limp under the touch, heading falling back against the station’s wall. He can feel the weight of Eric’s hand when he swallows, just at the edge of tight. 

Eric looks at him, a vicious grin still twisting his expression, and he leans forward to put his face just inches from Tyler’s, until Tyler can’t see anything else. 

His stare is cold and black, and the look in his eye says he doesn’t care if Tyler lives or days. That if he killed Tyler today, he wouldn’t even think about it tomorrow, except perhaps as one thing off a list accomplished. He looks at Tyler with all the hate in the world boiled down to one point, blind to all else. “Your father built prisons,” Eric says. “Your father built prisons, where _thousands_ of people died.” 

His voice is so certain, no waver or hint of question. Tyler tries to shake his head, tries to say _no_ , tries to say anything at all, but Eric’s hand is suddenly tight and he can’t – no air, no movement – 

“And the Union made him rich for it.” Eric lets him fall. 

Eric straightens and steps back, and Tyler can finally see behind him. Eva and Nell and Grace are gone. There’s a chair on the floor, knocked on its side. Across the room, Paul is holding Pearson – a hand fisted tight in Pearson’s shirt, and Paul’s other hand, down at his side, holds his gun. Paul lets go of Pearson, and Pearson takes a stumbling step back. He’s staring at Tyler, his face white. 

Eric says, “Paul, take that one and lock him in the storeroom.” He looks over his shoulder at Pearson. “I know all that’s not exactly common knowledge, but it’s true. So we’re gonna lock you in overnight, just in case you still feel like helping your friend. But don’t worry, son. Tomorrow we’ll drop you at the edge of town and from there, you can go wherever you want.” He turns back to Tyler. “But you. You’re staying with us.” 

 

 

He leaves Tyler tied, his hands bound behind him, his ankles roped together, and secured firmly to the stovepipe in the station’s common room. 

They take Pearson away. Tyler can hear him try the door and pound his fist into it once before falling silent. Eric takes the lamp with him when he leaves. The room is very dark after he’s gone. 

From his twisted position on the floor, Tyler can see the moon rise through the window. His wrist is first a fire-y mass of agony, but eventually his limbs just ache, and then cramp, and then go numb. 

He cries himself blind. 

He thinks about his father, leaving for work in the mornings. The way he would smile and kiss Tyler’s mother’s cheek, run a hand through Tyler’s hair. “Be good in your lessons today, Tyler, and we’ll see about going to the Blue & White game.” 

Or, “If I get home early enough, you can show me that shot you been working on, alright?” 

Or just, “Love you, guys. See you when I get back.” 

Tyler thinks about the way his dad hated suits and kept the knot in his tie loose until the last possible minute. The way he slid his briefcase across the marble countertop, always playing with how far he could make it go without it toppling to the floor. His neatly pressed pinstripe shirts and that peculiar, particular blend of smells – shaving cream and cologne, leather and the faded hint of tobacco that clung to Tyler after his father hugged him. 

He thinks about the plans, the blueprints Tyler’s father had shown him spread across the surface of his desk. “This will be a school. This will be a library. This will be a park.” How proud he was, how pleased, when he took Tyler to see the finished structures. 

He thinks about how at any given time, his father had a dozen projects going – all with their own neatly organized files and folders and plans. 

And how he’d only ever show Tyler one, or maybe two. How it was always something that was supposed to make their city better. Make people’s lives better. 

He wants to believe Eric’s wrong. He wants to believe Eric’s lying, but Tyler’s chest aches – because he’s not stupid; he’s not a child anymore, and you don’t get rich – not rich like Tyler’s dad – by building parks and ice rinks and schools. 

He think about all the things his father must not have shown him. 

Tyler starts to cry again, messy, ugly tears, with his face pressed against the floor and gasping in dust. He starts to shake. 

Two years since he’s seen his dad. Two years he’s carried around this fear – that he’ll never see him again. And that fear rises in him, a great raw sadness that the night in Manchester will be his last memory of his father: what if his dad will never speak to him again? Will never hold him again? What if Tyler will never again hear him laugh. Or tell a joke. What if he’ll never rest his hand on Tyler’s shoulder. Never again smile while he watches Tyler skate. 

And now this old, lingering fear is joined by a hot, new terror –what happens if his father does come here? What if what Eric said is true? What will happen to his father? What will happen to him? 

Tyler closes his eyes. He feels sick. And young, and selfish, because even thinking through all that – even knowing all that his dad might have done – Tyler wants him here. A hundred times out of a hundred, Tyler wants him back. 

Why aren’t you here? Tyler asks the empty room. Why aren’t you here when I need you? 

There’s a small scraping noise, a click from the other side of the room. Tyler opens his eyes, straining to see in the low light. 

Pearson looms out of the dark. Sudden and so quiet, Tyler’s startled. Tyler sucks in a breath. 

“Shhh.” Pearson touches Tyler’s shoulder, slides his hand down Tyler’s arms, until he finds the knots. 

Tyler’s brain can’t actually process that Pearson is here. It seems impossible that Pearson is actually here, with what Pearson must think – what Pearson knows – and the guys back in Manchester were _right_ to hate Tyler, and Pearson should have listened to them, Pearson shouldn’t be here – 

Except he is. Fingers working his knife through the rope, quick and deft. 

Tyler tries to say something, tries to say _I didn’t know_ , but his teeth are chattering too hard, he can’t get the air. His chest is tight, and it comes out a stuttered babble, “I didn’t – ” 

Pearson puts a hand over Tyler’s mouth. “Later, okay?” 

Pearson has to know, though. He needs Pears to know. Tyler moans under his fingers, “I didn’t know –.” 

“Tyler,” Pearson hisses. He brings his face down close to Tyler’s. His fingers a light touch on Tyler’s cheek. “I don’t care. But you have to be quiet now.” 

Tyler presses his lips together. Pears’ touch on his face disappears. 

The knots around Tyler’s arms come loose, the return of blood makes his hands prickle and burn. Pearson frees his feet, light glinting off his knife. He helps Tyler stand. He grabs Tyler’s shoes off the floor, pressing them to Tyler’s chest. Tyler tries to take them, but his hands are numb and won’t grip, and the shoes slip. 

They thump against the floor, and Tyler and Pearson freeze, listening. The station doesn’t stir. 

Pearson rubs Tyler’s hands between his until they come back to life. 

Tyler takes a step to check his balance. He bends down to rescue his shoes. 

“We need to go,” Pearson whispers. He pulls Tyler along by the sleeve, pushes the front door open, each low creak it makes a nightmare, and slowly, slowly they step out into the night. 

The sky is splayed and pitted with stars. The chill in the air rushes over Tyler’s skin. He freezes on the porch, heart in his throat, they can’t possibly get far enough, fast enough – “They’ll come looking for me. They’ll find us – ” 

Pearson silences him with a sharp look, he sets off away from the station, towards the truck in the yard. Tyler stumbles after him, desperate not to lose him in the dark. Pearson has reached the truck and he tests the door. Unlocked. He tips his head at Tyler, motioning him towards the passenger side. “Get in,” he mouths. 

Tyler has to leave his side to go around the truck, and he almost can’t, so frozen by fear. Pearson shoves him, and Tyler scrambles to the passenger side, feet slipping in the pine needles covering the ground. Tyler opens the door with trembling hands, freezing at the click. He climbs inside and pulls it shut after him, as quietly as he can, nerves jumping and firing under his skin. Pearson is already inside, feeling around under the sun visor. Frowning, he checks the center console. Looking for keys. The search comes up empty, and Tyler’s pulse picks up, thudding louder. 

Pearson’s fingers drum once over the wheel, and then he twists, turning to dig in the space behind the seats. Tyler winces at every clank and sliding thump. When Pearson turns back around, he’s got a screwdriver, and he holds it up for Tyler to see, sly smile on his face. 

Tyler frowns. 

Pears grins more broadly. “This truck is ancient,” he whispers, like that’s relevant. “I mean, like, really, really ancient. So cross your fingers.” He jams the screwdriver into where the key should go. He hits the screwdriver with the heel of his palm, as hard as he can. “Okay,” he tells Tyler. “Hold on.” 

He turns the screwdriver and the whole ignition turns with it. The truck roars to life. 

All the lights come on in the station. 

Pearson throws the truck into reverse, sends it peeling out, tires spinning and spraying gravel. Tyler braces against the dash, feeling madly for the seatbelt, as Pearson wrenches the wheel around and floors it, sending them roaring down the logging road. 

Pearson laughs. 

“Holy shit,” Tyler says, as they fishtail around the corners, his heart hammering. “Holy shit.” 

Pearson laughs again. He flips on the truck’s lights, takes the tight turns of the logging road with a joy that sends the tires slipping and skidding. He glances over at Tyler, grinning. 

They reach the junction where the logging road hits the highway, and Pearson looks over at him again, eyes still bright, expectant look on his face. The truck rumbles around them. Blacktop stretching away in either direction. 

No time to backtrack now. “South,” Tyler says. “Head south.” 

Pearson puts the truck in gear. 

 

 

The sound of the tires on the road is a steady hum as they put mile after mile between them and the ranger station. It’s so early it’s still dark, the road revealed only by the twin beams of the headlights constantly searching just in front of them. 

They fall quiet when they hit the highway. Tyler shivers. His head throbs. His eyes feel swollen and his throat raw. He touches his fingers to his neck and jaw, and he can feel light ache of new bruises. His breath comes out shuddering and too quick. 

Tyler’s stomach is tight and queasy. Even though it’s cool, he rolls down the window. Papers flutter in the center console and the cold brings up gooseflesh on his arms, but the air feels good on his face. 

Pearson glances over at him. 

He wouldn’t be here without Pearson. He wouldn’t be here if Pearson hadn’t decided to get him out, or if Pearson hadn’t thought to take the truck, and known how to start it, and known how to drive it. There are certain things you can’t do alone, and Tyler might know his Latin and his history, but he couldn’t have gotten them away. “Thank you.” 

Pearson shrugs, eyes steady on the road, squinting into the rising sun. “Please. It’s not like I was gonna leave you there.” 

“No – ” His throat’s too raw to raise his voice much, so Tyler reaches over and touches Pearson’s arm, takes a grip just above Pearson’s elbow. “Thank you.” They’re only words, and words aren’t enough. But he tries to put it in his voice: how much he means it. How much it’s maybe the most incredible thing anyone’s ever done for him. 

Pearson glances at him, quick and then away. His hands flex on the wheel. “You’re welcome.” His voice is a little rough. Low, but like he means it. 

Tyler lets go. 

The pavement spools out in front of them. They’re headed south and the sun is starting to come up to their left, the sky going soft and gray. The horizon blushes pink and gold. The wind pushes his hair back, and Tyler rests his head against the doorframe. It’s green all around them, a river twists next to the road, the sun throwing sparks across the surface of the water. The air still feels good, the wind cold, and strong enough on his face to make his eyes water. Next to him, Pearson settles back against his seat, one hand on the wheel, lazy two-fingered steering. He looks over at Tyler. “We are still going the right way, right?” 

“Stay on this, and then take 293 when it comes. That takes you straight into Manchester.” If Tyler closes his eyes, he can probably call up each sign and marker they’ll pass, he’s made the trip so often. “Then you take Granite Street.” 

“That goes to the arena?” 

It’s the only part of town Tyler knows, as good a place to start as any. “Yeah.” 

The wind lifts Pears’ hair. He nods and rolls his shoulders, and casts his eyes back over the road. “Manchester.” He takes a deep breath. “Here we come.” 

The morning sun makes the line of his jaw sharp. Tyler looks away from his face, and his gaze catches on the screwdriver, still where it was forced into the ignition. “How’d you know how to do that, anyway? How do you even know how to drive?” 

Pearson looks surprised. “You can’t drive?” 

“No.” 

“I thought you’d have like ten cars. Your – ” Pearson stops, swallowing back the rest. 

What he must think. What he must think Tyler’s life was like, and all the things he had. Tyler can see color creep into his face, and a cold ache rises again in Tyler’s chest. He can see Eric’s black gaze and his fury, and he can feel the helpless desperation just under his skin. “Did they say that about my dad, back in Manchester? That he built prisons?” 

“No, no.” Pearson looks horrified. He glances over at Tyler, quick, and his mouth works, looking for words. “They said he worked with the Union, they said he was rich – nobody ever – ” He trails off, wincing. 

“I didn’t know,” Tyler says. “If it’s true, I didn’t know.” He looks out the window, at the sun on the water and the green hills, speeding past. “He built schools. And hospitals. He said his favorite thing to build were places where people were going to be happy. He liked to make things beautiful – ” 

“Tyler – ” 

Tyler stops. He’s started crying again, although he hadn’t realized until right this moment. He wipes the back of hand across his face. “And he was good to me.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Pearson says, “You’re worried about him?” 

Tyler looks up. How could he not be? “He’s my dad.” 

Pearson nods, his eyes still focused on the road ahead. “You’ll find him.” 

Tyler would like to believe him. “Anyway.” He wipes his eyes again and clears his throat. “I just never got the chance to learn to drive.” Tyler might have, if his mother had wanted to him to learn, but she didn’t. His father had been too busy – back then, Tyler had thought he was busy building important things. Things worth taking the time away from his family, things worth never getting around to teaching his son how to drive. Now he thinks: busy building prisons. Busy ending people's lives. A knot climbs back into his throat. His eyes sting. “Who taught you?” 

Pearson’s hands rub and flex on the wheel. Tyler watches his long fingers, quick and deft. Pearson picks at a place the stitching has come loose on the wheel’s cover. “Nobody. I taught myself, I guess.” He shrugs. “I stole Father Gregory’s car. When I was twelve.” 

He’s smiling, but it’s a tight expression. His hands are still twisting, still restless on the wheel. Tyler asks, “Where were you trying to go?” 

“I don’t know,” Pearson says. His voice has gone low and clipped. “It doesn’t matter, I didn’t get very far.” 

His hands are distracting, the only part of him in motion, and Tyler watches them. Watches their unceasing motion. Working over the wheel, in an anxious, unhappy crawl. Pearson’s uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in a way Tyler hasn’t seen him, even in their two-day flight. Like the memory is somehow worse than the cold ground, worse than their hunger, maybe worse even than the fire that destroyed the compound gates, and – 

The weight of memory fills up the cab of the truck, it sucks up every last breath of air. Tyler can feel it pressing down on him, on both of them, and even in the sunlight, he’s cold. 

He wants to say something. And there is exactly nothing to say. 

Pearson’s jaw works back and forth, and his hands twist on the wheel. 

 

 

As they get closer to Manchester, the road gets more and more cut up. Cratered and crumbling in places, the guardrail crunched by some previous accident. Everything seems rougher, even the colors seem muted. The buildings on either side get denser and closer. Industry mostly, although there’s no sign of power, and the windows are glassless and gape like empty sockets. Tyler looks away. He turns his attention to the center console and the items in it. There’s a stack of small, brightly colored rectangular boxes and he pulls one out to examine it. It reads, _Bruce Springsteen._ Another is labeled, _STEPPENWOLF._ He holds it up to his ear and shakes lightly, but there’s no whirring, so sound of moving parts. Tyler pitches these into the back. 

He’s more interested in the papers underneath. He flips through the pages. They’re mostly drawings, sketched designs of what looks like tools and traps, and one that might be a well. Logs that are meaningless to Tyler: just long lists of coordinates and dates. But one of the pages is a map. Hand drawn, but recognizable as the Yellow. Bits of it have been sketched in, marked with symbols, although there doesn’t appear to be a key. 

Pearson slows, and Tyler looks up. There are stopped vehicles on the road now, and Pearson has to wind the truck between them. Some of them are wrecked, corners or sides crumpled and caved in. Some of them are blackened. The sunlight makes the shattered windshields dazzling. All of them are empty 

Pearson’s face is unhappy. “I don’t like this.” 

They take the Granite street exit, the one that will take them to the rink, Pearson’s eyes darting across the surroundings the whole time. 

Tyler frowns as they creep down the ramp, because the road doesn’t look familiar – they’ve passed exactly this way hundreds of times before, but it feels off, it feels different. Everything looks slightly fuzzy and faded. 

The sightlines, he realizes finally. It looks unfamiliar because all the sightlines are different, because so many of the buildings are gone. 

And everything looks faded, because everything is covered in a fine layer of gritty ash. 

Some of the structures close to the road are collapsing in on themselves, becoming just piles of brick and plaster and dust. But some of them are just gone – just bare foundations and shadows burned into the cement footprint. They pass a sign, half-melted and warped by heat. The hair on the back of Tyler’s neck begins to stand. An anxious whine builds in his ears. 

They roll to a stop at the intersection, although there’s no traffic, and the stoplight is eyeless and dark, and swinging gently in the breeze. The road directly across the intersection is completely blocked with rubble – crushed asphalt and giant, broken slabs of cement that climb and lean against a brick building that’s starting to give way under the weight. 

Way up high on the side of this building – as though someone had climbed this treacherous, shifting tower of ruin just to write it – is scrawled in dripping, red paint, _114 : 7._

They both stare. Pearson’s eyes gone huge and round. Tyler tries to swallows, starts to ask, “What – ” 

“Tremble, o earth, before the presence of your Lord.” Pearson’s voice is unsteady, as though obeying the command. There’s real fear on his face, real bone-deep, honest fear. Tyler looks again at those numerals, screaming red amongst the ash and the concrete gray and the crumbled charcoal asphalt. A warning, an announcement – but for who, Tyler doesn’t know. And whoever left that message, he wonders, were they coming or going? 

Or are they still here? 

The smell seeps into Tyler’s awareness. The whole place smells acrid, burned, and under that, under that Tyler can smell something sickly sweet, something dusky and rancid, some awful combination of treacle and rot. 

All the life has been scraped out of this place, a shell hollowed by blank and random violence and left to spoil in the sun – 

There’s a screech and a thump, and fat, black raven lands on the hood of their truck, head cocked sideways and beady eye fixed on them. 

Tyler’s startled into yelling. 

Pearson floors the accelerator, sending the bird skittering away, and they lurch forward through the intersection, choosing one of the open branches. “Toff, get us out of here. I don’t want to be here. We need to get out.” 

Tyler’s heart is going a million miles an hour; he’s braced back against the seat. He scans the horizon and points. “There. You can get back on the highway there.” 

Pearson cranks the wheel; the truck lurches and squeals beneath them as he changes course. The tires kick up clouds of the dust that had settled over the road, and Pearson leans forward straining to see. Tyler cranks the window back up, but it’s too late, the smell is in the cab, and the dust is in the cab, coating his throat and making him cough – dust from crumbled buildings, dust from burned buildings, dust from burned – 

Tyler’s stomach turns. 

Pearson’s calling to him, Pearson’s saying something to him, but it takes Tyler a couple tries to focus on it. Pearson has gotten them back up onto the highway. “Now what?” 

Tyler freezes, his mind blank. Where to go? Where is safe to go? He flails for the hand-drawn map, left sitting in the console. 

“Tyler?” Pearson’s voice is edgy, anxious. 

“Give me a second.” He traces the symbols with his finger. There are small _X’s_ over Manchester, Nashua, Concord, and Lowell. North of them, the whole area has been shaded in with careful, diagonal stripes. In the southern part of the map, also shaded, the stripes run the opposite direction. And where they are now, stripes of both directions form a crosshatch. 

Tyler smoothes the edges of the paper under his hands to keep it from fluttering. The _X’s_ are gone, he thinks, no time to mourn them now. The north is held by the Union. But what’s to the south of them – Tyler doesn’t know. What’s to the south of them is anyone’s guess. But maybe, just maybe, it’s _free._

A town – just at the very southern edge of the Yellow, where the ocean comes in, just before the border of the Orange and Blue – has been circled. No X. Just circled. “There,” Tyler says, touching the spot on the map. He glances up. “Head west. And south.” 

“Where are we going?” 

Tyler hesitates. The town is just a dot, its name unfamiliar. “I don’t know exactly.” 

Pearson glances at him, brow creased in concern. 

That’s all Tyler has for him. Hope is all they’ve got. Hope for something different. Hope for something safe. “Somewhere that’s not like here.” 

 

 

They peel out of Manchester, and they drive. The truck eats up the miles, and the lines on the asphalt become a blur. Tyler points occasionally, directing Pearson down the roads that will take them towards the circled town. They stay quiet on the drive. Tyler breathing long, slow, deliberate pulls, trying to calm a still-racing heart, telling himself that a half-understood goal is better than none at all. 

The main highway becomes a smaller road, and that becomes something even more narrow and full of curves. Pearson clears his throat. “This town – you don’t know who’s going to be in it?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “I just think it’s still going to be there.” 

Pearson shifts in his seat. Tips his head as if weighing this information. “If there are people there, I don’t think you should tell them your name.” 

Tyler doesn’t say anything, the memory of Eric’s hand on his throat bright and sharp in his mind. He nods. 

Under Tyler’s guide, from this road, they exit straight onto Main Street. Slowing to a near crawl, they roll past an incongruously cheerful sign – _Welcome to Hamden._ The storefronts are intact and unscarred, flowers in the window boxes waving in the breeze, although the doorways and windows seem empty; Tyler can’t see any people. 

The roundabout in the main intersection is capstoned by a towering flagpole. And up at the top of it, furling and snapping in the breeze, is a flag of solid, unrelieved black. 

Pearson lets the truck idle. 

Tyler stares at the flag. That black could mean any number of things. That black could mean nothing. That black could mean – 

“Tyler.” Pearson slaps his arm and points. Tyler looks out into the road in front of them, just a few yards ahead, a man is walking slowly out to the center of the road. He turns to face him. 

He walks towards the truck, steady and unhurried, without flinching or looking away. He is tall, thin almost to the point of gauntness. He has his hair pulled back into a ponytail, and his face is bearded. A hand-rolled cigarette dangles from his lip. 

A rifle hangs from his shoulder. 

The hair on the back of Tyler’s neck starts to rise, the thud of his heart gets louder in his ears. 

The man approaches the truck at a perfectly even pace. He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough that he could reach out and touch the hood. He looks at them, through the windshield, lifts his eyebrows in a an expression that’s almost amused. Almost a dare. And then he gestures – pointing to the truck, and then a quick slash of his hand across his throat. 

“You’re sure about this?” Pearson asks, mumbled and just audible. Tyler swallows, and nods without looking away from the man in the road. 

Pearson kills the engine. 

The man gestures at them again, two fingers flicked upwards. 

Pearson raises his hands, and Tyler follows suit. 

The man grins, an uneven smirk that only lifts half his mouth. 

Tyler’s pulse kicks into high gear, and he glances at the door handle, ready to run. 

The man walks very slowly around to Pearson’s side of the truck, one hand resting casually on the butt of his rifle. Tyler can see the muscles of Pearson’s throat work, the quick rise and fall of his chest. The man looks through the open window at the inside of the truck, eyes darting from Pearson’s hands – held motionless – to Tyler, to the screwdriver in the ignition, to the foot well, to the bed. Then back to Tyler and Pearson. His gaze rests on their faces. “You don’t look like soldiers,” he says. 

“We’re not.” Pearson breathes the words. He keeps his hands perfectly still, his eyes forward. “We’re hockey players.” 

“Hockey players.” The man repeats, and then he grins that lopsided smirk again. “You know, I believe that. If only because only hockey players would be dumb enough to drive through contested territory, alone, in an unarmored vehicle.” He reaches through the open window and opens Pearson’s door for him, stepping back to allow it to swing wide. “Why don’t you boys step out of the truck. Slowly.” 

Tyler climbs down, very slow, very careful. 

He motions for them to come stand in front of the truck. He smiles, although his hand never leaves the gun at his side. He looks at Tanner first. “What’s your name?” 

Pearson blinks, an instant of hesitation, and there’s something spinning, something working behind his eyes. “Linden,” he says evenly. “Linden Vey. And this is my brother – Jordan.” 

It hardly registers, at first, that Pearson is talking about him, he’s still hung up on the surprise of Pearson giving Vey’s name. When it does sink in, Tyler nods, maybe just a beat too late. 

“Brothers?” The man sounds surprised. He glances between the two of them. “You don’t look much alike.” 

Pearson draws himself up, squares his shoulders. “You wanna insult our mom some more, or should I just punch you now?” His hands ball at his sides and Tyler freezes, waiting. 

But the man just smiles, right in Pearson’s face. “Easy, easy. I guess you’re the mouthy one, then.” He studies Pearson a moment longer and then his eyes flick over to Tyler. “And you’re the quiet one. In my experience, that makes you the dangerous one.” He pauses, and stares very hard at Tyler’s face. “Is that true, Jordan? Are you the one I have to watch out for?” 

Tyler doesn’t dare breathe. The man watches him very closely, and Tyler watches him back. There’s something familiar in his face, in the lines of it, in the dark, quick flick of his gaze. Something that Tyler should recognize, like Tyler should know him, like a lost word sitting on the tip of his tongue. 

The man’s face splits suddenly in a broad smile. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he tells Pearson. “I’m sure we can all be friends. Right?” 

“Right.” It’s a new voice that speaks, and Tyler’s head jerks up. Two men have appeared, standing just in front of one the storefronts. Both of them armed. 

“Just one little formality.” The first man drops the stub of his cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his toe. He has them stand with their hands on the truck, and pats them both down, a quick, efficient search. He pulls nothing off Tyler, but he does find Pearson’s knife. 

The man pulls it free of Pearson’s pocket and holds it up. 

“That’s mine,” Pearson says, a layer of heat to it. 

“And if you are who you say you are, you’ll get it back.” He steps away from them. “Now. Why don’t we go inside? And you boys can tell me what brings you to Hamden.” 

 

 

They walk with him off the main road and to one of the houses that line the side streets. Their host tosses a friendly smile over his shoulder, but by now Tyler can see two more men standing on the front porch of the house they’re walking towards. They’re armed too. The man holds the door open for them to precede him in, and friendly look or not, Tyler doesn’t really think he’s asking. 

The house itself is a typical New England clapboard, pale blue outside and nothing inside seems strange, nothing particularly out of place – except a big “23” painted on the wall of the front room, in what must have once been white, but has since faded around the edges to a dingy gray. The man trails his fingers across the numerals as he leads them back into the kitchen. 

He leans against the countertop and lights a fresh cigarette and studies them, arms crossed over his chest. “So. Where were you boys headed?” 

Pearson looks at Tyler out of the corner of his eye, but Tyler’s still stuck thinking about the _23_ in the front room. Tyler’s still thinking about the black flag in the street outside, and the man’s face: sleepy brown eyes and crooked grin. Tyler’s missing something, something important. 

“West,” Pearson says finally, his voice is hesitant, but Tyler can tell he’s aiming for light, harmless. “We’re heading out west. We were up north, but – ” He trails off. 

The man blows a long stream of smoke upward, and it curls toward the ceiling. He looks out the window and shrugs. “That’s not a bad strategy, I guess. Gotta be careful on the way west, though. Veer too far north and you hit Chicago – not looking real pretty there right now. Go too far south and you’ll hit Texas. Russians are busy turning that place into Little Moscow and they’re not real interested in Anglo visitors at the moment.” 

Pearson just blinks at this, face giving nothing away. “What did you say your name was?” 

The man looks at them and grins. “Did I not introduce myself?” Except it’s clear from his voice that he knows he hasn’t. “My name’s Jon.” 

Tyler forces himself not to react. 

_Jon_ – here in this town bedecked with a black flag, in a house adorned by the number 23. Jon, who carries a gun but doesn’t look like any soldier Tyler’s ever seen. A man who seems to know big swaths of the country. Whose quick, precise movements Tyler recognizes. Whose sharp, dark gaze Tyler has seen before. 

Most recently, behind a mask. Jon is Jonathan Quick. 

And he’s still watching them. “What exactly are you hoping to find out west?” 

Pearson opens his mouth, but Tyler cuts him off. “The Black,” he says. “We’re headed to the Black. We’re looking for Dean Lombardi.” 

Pearson glances over, surprise he can’t quite cover on his face, and Jon narrows his eyes. He taps ash into the sink. His voice a careful brand of casual, he asks, “What do you want with Dean Lombardi?” 

“He’s the one that’s leading all this, right?” Tyler gestures vaguely, trying to indicate the house and the men with guns and the flag outside. Because that has to be it. Otherwise, why is Jonathan Quick out here at all? “We want to help him.” 

Pearson is staring daggers at him. 

“Whole lot of people are interested in Dean Lombardi,” Jon says. He’s looking very intently at Tyler. “For a whole lot of reasons.” 

Tyler holds his gaze, he can feel Pearson shifting next to him, restless, and the silence stretches. 

Jon tips his head back towards the road. “You planning on heading all the way out there in that truck?” 

“Why not?” Pears draws himself up straighter. “Listen. We can work. We’ll buy gas off you, and move on – ” 

“Was it you that hotwired that truck?” Jon looks amused. “Or did someone do that for you?” 

Pearson falls silent. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Jon shakes his head. “Listen, I don’t give a fuck where you got it, and I’m sure you had your reasons. But you’re gonna have a hell of a time getting to California that way.” He pauses, considering. “You can buy gas these days, if you know the right places to look. But it’s not cheap.” 

“I said we could work.” There’s a sharpness bleeding into Pearson’s tone. 

“I heard you.” Jon tips his head, considering. “Tell you what. We have people making the run out west pretty regular these days. You work for me for a month, I’ll put you on the next one. Deal?” 

They look at each other. Pearson’s whole body is tight, and his face is worried. Tyler swallows. “Can we – can you give us a minute?” 

Jon looks amused. “Sure. I’ll be out back. Yell when you’re done talking it over.” 

Tyler watches him head out the back door. “Pears, that’s – ” 

“Why are you telling him so much?” Pearson’s hissing the words under his breath. “He could be just like those other people. He could be _worse_ – ” 

“Why am _I_ telling him so much? You’re the one who said we were _brothers._ There are rosters, you know, he could just check – ” Tyler’s voice is rising. He glances outside and cuts himself off. “Pears,” he says, quieter, “That’s Jonathan Quick.” 

Pears loses his irritated look, and just blinks at him, face gone blank. He looks towards the back yard. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” Tyler leans in close. “That’s the starting goaltender for the Black.” Not that that really matters, anymore. “He’s got to know where Dean is. Or how to get in touch.” Tyler pauses. “And what else are we supposed to do?” 

Pearson still doesn’t look happy. “That doesn’t – we don’t know him. Just remember that, okay? We don’t know him, and – the last people we ran into tried to hurt you.” 

Pears’ voice is so sharp it makes Tyler stop and swallow. He takes a breath to gather himself. “This is what we were looking for, though. This is what we were trying to find.” He needs Pearson to get this. Tyler grabs his hand, urgency making his words run together. “And no one’s looking for Linden Vey, or his brother – ” 

“I _know_ , that’s why I lied, I – ” 

“I know, but – ” 

Pears looks down at Tyler’s hand, holding onto his. There’s still a red mark on Tyler’s wrist, from the rope, and Pears rubs his thumb across it. 

Tyler’s chest goes tight, and the room is abruptly too small, too warm. “What else are we supposed to do?” 

 

 

Jon invites them to dinner – “You’ll eat with us, of course” – and the food is served in the yard behind the blue house, laid out on a long table. Jon sends them to join the line of people waiting to fill their plates. Jon didn’t say anything about who they are, but they’re mostly young, mostly men. They cast quick, cool glances at Tyler and Pearson, sizing them up, but nobody seems too surprised to see new faces. 

Tyler can pin down almost the instant Pearson snaps into his public face. His shoulders drop, his stride lengthens. The irritated wariness from earlier disappears and he grins at their new dinner companions, friendly enough for both of them. He finds them a spot at a table with a bunch of guys who look roughly their age. 

They tell Tyler and Pearson that they’ve been in the north, fighting for Jon Quick. “Most everybody here just rotated off the line,” one of the guys tells them, in the pauses between shoveling forkfuls of potatoes into his mouth. He has dark, curly hair that he keeps pushing absently out of his face. “Get a week off down south and then we head back up.” He sniffs and swipes at his hair again. “We’re fucked if they make a serious push, but for right now we’re holding.” 

Pearson nods seriously at this, as though it means something to him, although Tyler’s pretty sure Pears is just as lost as he is. Pearson asks, “Where were you – before all this?” 

“Oh, man,” the dark-haired guy’s fork zig zags back and forth in the air. “I was bouncing all over the four-letter leagues before everything went to shit. You?” 

“The A.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He looks impressed. He looks like he’s waiting for Pearson to elaborate. 

“Were you guys all playing hockey before this?” Tyler’s been scanning the crowd for familiar faces. 

“All? No. Some of us, sure.” He shrugs. “Sort of the crowd Quickie attracts, you know?” 

Tyler looks over. Jon Quick is eating with a slight, dark-haired woman. They sit at a table by themselves. Quick’s head is bent, nodding in response to something the woman just said. Every so often he looks up, and it takes Tyler just a couple minutes of watching him to realize Quick’s checking the perimeter of the yard. Mindless, automatic. Every time someone walks in, his eyes dart up, check their face, and then move away. 

Tyler finished eating long ago. He pushes the last of his potatoes through the gravy on his plate and stays quiet, just nodding every so often when Pearson looks over at him, only half listening, eyes on Quick. 

While he’s watching, Quick straightens, attention caught by someone who’s just entered the yard. 

Tyler follows his gaze. The man who’s drawn Quick’s attention has short-cropped blond hair and a crooked nose. He raises a hand in greeting. “Hey, hey.” 

Quick grins wide and stands. “Hey, Greener. I was wondering when you’d show up.” 

Greener hugs him, an enthusiastic bear hug. The kind you give someone you’ve missed. The kind you give someone you know really well. The kind you give a teammate. 

Tyler kicks Pearson under the table. 

They both watch Quick put his hand on Greener’s – _that’s Matt Greene –_ shoulder. “Where you been?” Quick asks. 

Matt Greene pulls a face. “Everywhere, man, everywhere.” 

Quick’s eyes drift across the yard then, and just for a moment, his gaze lights on Tyler. 

 

 

The woman, who is Quick’s wife, whose name is Jackie, directs them inside the house to scrape their dishes. She watches them, just as close as her husband. Tyler ducks his head to avoid her gaze. He focuses on the feel of the plate in his hands, hidden in the soapy water. When he risks a look up, she’s still watching him. Pearson bumps him with his elbow and frowns. Tyler hands him the dish to rinse. 

The bitter, herbal smell of Quick’s cigarettes announces his arrival even before he pushes through the door to the kitchen. He walks in and goes to Jackie first, an arm around her shoulder, a whisper in her ear, and then louder, loud enough for Pearson and Tyler to hear, “Can I borrow these two? They can finish cleaning up in a minute.” 

She gives him a wry look. “Of course.” 

Jon leads them down the hall and into an office. His office, Tyler imagines, but a public one. Nothing on the walls but innocuous scenes of ships on the sea. Nothing on the desk at all. Whatever Jonathan Quick is doing, whatever business he conducts with Dean Lombardi, it isn’t done here. 

Matt Greene is sitting with his back to them in one of the chairs facing the desk, feet propped up in front of him. He cranes his neck to watch them come in, but he doesn’t stand. 

“Boys, this is Matt Greene. Greener, these two wandered in this afternoon.” 

Pearson holds out his hand. He’s still got that bland, bright look on his face. He smiles. “An honor, sir.” 

Greene twists in his seat to take Pearson’s hand and holds it, grinning back. “Well. Didn’t someone train you up good?” He looks beyond Pearson to Quick. In Tyler’s peripheral vision, Quick shrugs. 

Pearson pulls his hand free. 

Greene shifts his attention to Tyler and nods at him. Tyler shakes his hand as well. He doesn’t say anything. 

“Wandered in from where?” Greene asks. He has pale blue eyes. He glances over both of them, deceptively quick, but Tyler doesn’t think he’s missed much. 

“North of here,” Pearson says, wariness creeping back into his voice. 

Greene was inspecting his nails, as though it had been nothing more than an idle question. But now he looks up at them. “Where?” Firmer this time. 

Pearson looks at Tyler. 

“Ah, no cheating.” Greene stands up. He steps between Tyler and Pearson, blocking Tyler’s line of sight. Tyler’s pulse picks up. Everyone’s smiling, but the air in the room feels tight, feels a half-step from violence, and he realizes Quick hasn’t moved away from the door. 

Greene asks Pearson again, “Easy question. Where did you come in from?” 

Pears hesitates another beat. Tyler can’t see his face, and the whole room has gone still. 

“Manchester,” Pearson says. “We were playing for Manchester.” 

“Manchester,” Greene draws the word out, smiling again like they’re all good friends. “You must know Muzz, then?” He turns and he looks straight at Tyler. 

Tyler knows exactly what he’s being asked, and it takes him just a second to think of something. “Sure. Only guy I ever played with who wrapped his blade by holding the tape still, and moving the stick.” 

Greener laughs. “Fucking Muzz. He did a lot of things backwards.” He takes his place back in his chair and gestures. “Well. It sounds like you boys better sit down.” 

They both pull chairs up to the desk, and Quick comes around to sit on the other side. 

“So,” Greener continues. “Were you in Manch when the Union hit it?” He asks the question in the same breezy tone. As if the subject matter were no more serious than Muzz’ game day idiosyncrasies. 

Tyler swallows, and Pears looks down. “We were in the Monarchs’ compound,” Tyler says slowly, keeping his eyes on the desk. “When the Union came.” 

Greene wants to know exactly what happened. Greene wants to know how many Union vehicles, and how many soldiers in each. He wants to know what guns they carried, and what else they had. He wants to know what direction they came from, and what direction they went when they were through. 

Tyler tells him everything he can remember. Greene’s eyes narrow a bit when Tyler tells him the kind of vehicles they were, and the model of guns they were carrying. 

Quick jumps in, adding his own questions. “How many of them chased you into the woods?” 

“I don’t know exactly.” Tyler’s memory gets fuzzier there, everything blurred by panic. Mostly he remembers being afraid. He looks to Pears. 

Pearson’s mouth is a tight line. “It sounded like more than two, but less than ten.” 

“Okay. What about the gunshots? Were they spaced evenly, or were they quick bursts?” 

Tyler focuses on the memory, and he can feel the way his heart pounded inside his chest. The cold of the stream on his back, soaking into his clothes. The fear, like its own brand of ice water. Images he doesn’t want, things he doesn’t want to remember, fierce and vivid in his head. And he’s walking through the compound again, in that horrific silence, with the fallen gates and the burned branches all snapped and scattered over the ground – “I don’t know. I don’t know.” His breath comes too fast, even now. Sweat on his palms. His throat closes. “We were scared. We just ran.” 

“Okay.” There’s a touch to his shoulder. Tyler blinks. He’s in the room again. In the office again, and Quick has leaned across the desk. He squeezes Tyler’s shoulder. “That’s enough, I think.” He sits back and looks at Greene, something passing between them, too subtle for Tyler to read. 

Greene shrugs. 

Quick folds his hands on the desk and looks at them. “Here’s the short version: the Union’s concentrating their forces around Toronto, and we’re trying to hold them to as little ground as possible. We need all the hands we can get to do that. We’ll give you food and shelter in exchange for work. In a month, if you still want to go, you can hitch a ride with one of our transports out west.” 

Tyler looks at Pears, but their options haven’t really changed. This is still their best shot. He nods. “Okay.” 

“Good.” Quick looks at both of them before rising. He leads them outside. 

Pears immediately starts scanning the street. “Where’s our truck?” 

“It’s safe,” Quick says. 

He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps walking towards his own vehicle, doesn’t even slow down. Tyler starts to get nervous all over again. They’ll be stuck. They’ll be dependent on Jon Quick and his good will – and what if Quick can somehow get ahold of a Monarchs’ roster and finds out they’re lying about their names? What if he finds out who Tyler’s father is? And what if – Tyler’s steps slow and stop – what if he somehow already knows? “Where are you taking us?” 

Quick turns and looks at him. His eyes are flat and dark, and his mouth is sharp line. “You’re gonna help us build fire breaks. I’m taking you out to where you’ll be working.” He gestures. “Just west of here.” 

Isolated. Trapped. Tyler looks at Pearson, and Pearson drifts to a stop too. “Maybe we should go out on our own,” Tyler says. 

“Hey.” Jon Quick’s voice seems very carefully cool. “I thought we had a deal?” He holds out his hands, palms out. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be fed. And in a month, you’ll get what you want.” 

Pears is really tense next to him, way more tense than he was a moment ago, coiled, like he might actually spring into a run, the air suddenly charged around them. 

Tyler locks eyes with Quick. Jonathan Quick, he reminds himself. Who works with Dean. Who Dean trusts. He breathes. “Okay.” 

Quick smiles, slow. He holds the door of his car open for them. On the drive out, he says, “Union’s been burning things. Part of the fix is to create fire breaks. So if, say, they set Philly on fire we don’t lose half of Pennsylvania.” The roads grow smaller and the surroundings more wooded as they go, until they’re on a dirt road that climbs a hillside. 

Jon parks in front of a cabin, perched at the edge of the trees. He walks them through the tall grass in front of it. “We’re working on building a fire break from here to Danbury. This is one of the last sections we have left. He kicks aside some of the brush to reveal the beginnings of a trench, unfinished and overgrown. “I need all this brush cleared and this trench to continue to the edge of the valley. We’ll see how far you get in a month, and then we’ll talk about getting you out to the Black.” 

Tyler looks at Quick, and even though he doesn’t know anything about trench digging, he nods. 

“The cabin’s yours.” Quick says. “You’ll have to cook for yourself and clean up after yourselves, but it’s clean. Warm. Decent kitchen. Bathroom. Tools for digging are all in the shed.” He pops the trunk of the car and there’s a crate of groceries inside and a stack of folded linens. “We’ll bring you into Hamden for dinner occasionally.” He pauses, smiles again. “Keep ya civilized and all.” He hands the groceries to Tyler. He gives the linens to Pearson. “Some extra clothes in there, too, that Jackie rounded up. You can thank her later. Oh, and – ” He grins and pulls Pearson’s knife out of his pocket , sets it careful and deliberate on top of the pile. He looks at Pears, and there’s something sharp in his look. “Can’t forget that.” 

Quick steps back. He nods at both of them and gets in his car. And then he’s gone. 

 

 

Quick’s car disappears around the last curve in the hillside, and a minute later, even the sound of the motor fades away. Pearson frowns. “That was weird.” 

Pearson’s arms are full of stacked linens. In the middle of nowhere, standing in the sea of tall grass, he looks incongruous, like some marooned sailor. 

Tyler thinks everything about today has been weird for any number of reasons. He shifts the crate of groceries in his arms. “Why weird?” 

Pearson’s eyes narrow. “Quick was nervous back there. He really didn’t want you to leave.” 

“He – ” Tyler was nervous back there, but he hadn’t thought Jon seemed particularly nervous. On edge, maybe. But maybe that’s the same thing. Or maybe Tyler just hadn’t been looking closely enough, all wrapped up in what might happen. “You think?” 

Pears lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, I do. He couldn’t get us out to this cabin fast enough.” He looks at the bend in the road where Quick’s car disappeared, and when he looks back at Tyler, his mouth is all twisted, like he’s tasting something sour. But whether he’s more worried about Quick coming back, or not coming back, is hard to say. “You trust him?” 

In a lot of ways, he’s a strange choice to trust, since Tyler knows Jonathan Quick was arrested in 2005, in the Northeast Riots. Tyler knows that because everyone knows that – it had been a really big deal. When he was arrested, the news people had all acted like it was some great triumph of civilization over the forces of chaos. They said it was cause for great celebration. The local Morality Officer had even made a speech. 

Tyler’s father had been seated on the stage behind the Morality Officer during his speech. Tyler had sat next to his mother, in the first row of chairs. She held his hand, which he hadn’t liked, because he was twelve-almost-thirteen at the time, but she held onto him too tightly for him to get free without making a scene. 

When they got home, his dad went straight to the liquor cabinet, and his mother sat and tapped a nail against the end table in a slow, constant rhythm. “Twenty years old,” was all she said. 

Tyler’s father shot her a look. “Don’t you start.” 

She looked right back at him. Tyler thought for a minute that she was going to yell, or maybe even cry – because all the color had drained from her face, and her jaw was clenched so tight it trembled. But she just swallowed, smoothed her hands down the sleeves of her blouse, and said, “I’d better get started on dinner.” 

Tyler remembers the riots themselves only vaguely. He doesn’t remember feeling scared, even though the news showed images of angry crowds and men in masks, only irritated, because curfew had been moved up, and that had meant his parents wouldn’t let him walk home from the rink, and that meant he couldn’t stay and skate as late as he wanted to. Whatever Jonathan Quick and his friends were so angry about had seemed very far away. 

When they flashed his mugshot on the TV at night, the news called Quick a monster, called him a terrorist, but Tyler thought Jonathan Quick really just looked like Tyler himself felt: pissed and impatient. Like maybe Jonathan Quick had been on his way to a hockey game, too, and being arrested was getting in the way. 

That had been a hard year. His parents fought a lot that year. And that was the summer Wayne had left for Owen Sound. And the year Dean had been hired by the Black. 

Dean had come by the house before he left, of course. That last evening, Dean and Tyler’s father spent hours behind closed doors that muffled their voices only enough so that Tyler couldn’t tell what they were saying, but not enough to prevent him from knowing they were shouting at each other. But when they finally emerged, his dad had pulled Dean very close and hugged him for a lot longer than Tyler was used to seeing his father touch anyone. Dean hugged him back just as hard. 

Dean had hugged Tyler, too, and told him to be good, and told him to care of his mother, and to keep practicing his wrister. He said he’d send Tyler a jersey, and Tyler tried really hard not to cry, because being almost-thirteen meant being basically grown up – but the Black had seemed so far away, and despite his best intentions, tears threatened at the corner of his eyes. 

“Oh, Tyler,” Dean had breathed, and held Tyler’s face in both his hands. 

Once in the Black, one of the very first things Dean had done, was bring on Jonathan Quick. Which Tyler remembers very clearly, because his dad had thrown the newspaper across the room. 

“What’s he _doing?_ ” Tyler had asked, voice incredulous, because sure, Quick had lost his citizenship, and that made him cheap, but the news had said he was terrible, they said he was trying to destroy the very fabric of their society. 

“Crossing the Rubicon,” his dad said. And then he put his hand over his mouth and shook his head, and wouldn’t answer any more of Tyler’s questions. He’d gotten up and put his jacket on, heading for the door. “Tell your mother I’ll be late, would you?” 

For better or for worse, Jonathan Quick has been by Dean’s side ever since. Been with him for whatever he was building – what Tyler used to think was a hockey team, but really, maybe, was this. 

Is this what you wanted, Dean? Tyler thinks. Half the country on fire? 

What would a revolution look like, if Dean built it? And if this is his work, why is Jon Quick here, and not in the west? Does he still stand with Dean, or is he out on his own? If Tyler could find Dean, he could ask. If he could find Dean, he could demand answers. He could maybe find his parents. He could maybe go home. If home’s still there. But he can’t. And he can’t ask Jon Quick. Quick spent time imprisoned, maybe even in a prison Tyler’s father built – a thought that makes Tyler sick. And now, like this, what’s Tyler supposed to do? Just walk up to him and say: “I need to talk to Dean.” So Quick could answer: “Why on earth would Dean talk to you?” 

And what’s Tyler supposed to say to _that?_ “Because when I was five, and I cried when I was trying to learn how to skate backwards because I was so afraid of falling, that he was there, next to me, and he promised me he would always, always catch me?” 

Tyler can’t say that. Tyler can’t say anything at all. It’s so frustrating not to have the information he needs. Although, given their lack of options, maybe it doesn’t really matter. 

Tyler shrugs, swallows around the lump in his throat, and looks at Pears. “I think we have to trust him. I don’t know what else to do.” 

Pears doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t say anything. He looks past Tyler to the cabin they’re apparently going to be staying in. “Well,” he says. “Let’s go see what we’ve got.” 

 

 

The porch is gray weathered wood, but solid. The cabin sits just at the edge of the tree line, set back into the hillside, and it feels half-hidden in the gathering dusk. A tall-grass meadow sprawls in front and an overgrown garden ranges off to one side. 

Pearson pushes the door open, and holds it for Tyler to follow. The air inside is dusty and stale, filled with the smell of mothballs. He flips on a lamp – it has an old-fashioned bulb, and the room is lit with a warm, yellow glow. The space is sparsely furnished: a couch and chair, upholstery faded and thin, the couch covered by an old crochet throw, its medley of colors faded unevenly by the sun. The couch and chair are both pulled up close to the fireplace, and there’s a bookcase just beyond – empty except for a long row of gold-backed magazines that Tyler recognizes because his mother had a similar collection: _National Geographic_. All of it neat but dusty, as though no one has been in here for a very long time. 

The kitchen is just off to one side. Tyler sets the crate of groceries down on the countertop, sending up a small puff of rust-colored dust. The ancient, half-size fridge is unplugged, empty except for a lonely box of baking soda sitting on the top shelf, but it coughs and hums to life when Pearson plugs it in. The linoleum-lined shelves of the pantry are equally barren: a tin of instant coffee so old it looks more gray than earthy brown, and a canister of what looks like flour – now studded with the feathery bodies of moths. 

Pears looks over his shoulder at the flour and makes a face. 

Tyler sets it back on the shelf. 

Pears retreats from the kitchen and drops the linens and clothing on the couch. He opens the door at the far end of the room, and this leads to the bedroom – an old metal-framed bed, a chest of drawers, and a desk. When Tyler follows him in, Pears is studying the calendar hanging above the desk. The pages are warped, and the colors of the image – a covered bridge, autumn foliage – are faded. The displayed page reads _September 1991_. 

Older than either him or Pearson. 

Tyler ducks back into the main room. There’s a ladder, and this leads up to a loft. Tyler climbs up and finds another bed and a chest of drawers tucked up under the eaves. 

He can hear Pearson moving around below, walking across creaking floorboards and the sound of the faucet being run and shut off. The shower being tested. Tyler pulls open the top drawer of the chest – empty. All traces of whoever last stayed here gone. He shuts it again. He draws the Manchester logo on the chest’s dusty surface. 

Maybe this is Quick’s family’s cabin. Maybe they once stayed here together. Maybe they played board games in front of the fire, or sledded down the hill outside. Or maybe Quick just found this place, abandoned and convenient. Maybe he has no memories of it at all. Maybe all the memories here belong to some stranger, someone Tyler will never meet. 

Tyler wonders if they were happy here. It seems like the sort of small, quiet place a family would be happy. But of course, that’s just a guess. Tyler’s never going to know the history, just the cabin as it is now, in this one particular moment. 

If he were here with his parents, his parents would take the room downstairs, and Tyler and Pearson could split this one. Or Tyler could take the couch. His mom would no doubt tackle the wild mess of the garden out back, and his dad could help them with the trench. He’d probably know some way to make the work go faster, or the fire-break more effective. It would be tight quarters, but it would be fine, they would be fine, and they could all sit down to dinner, and – 

Tyler squeezes his eyes shut, tight. Presses the heels of his palms into them until he sees lights. His parents aren’t here. His parents aren’t ever going to be here. He’s not going to work alongside his father. He’s not going to sit down to dinner with his mother. He’s not going to see them again. 

Unless he can find them. 

Finding them means getting to Dean. Dean’s in the Black. And getting to the Black means helping Jon Quick. Helping Jon Quick means being here and digging this trench. 

Tyler lets out a long breath, studying his reflection in the mirror. He’s doing the right thing. He can make this work. 

He can still hear Pearson down below – the creak of doors, the rattle of cabinets and drawers being systematically checked. He wonders if Pears is looking for something specific, or if he’s just looking. Tyler glances down, and he can see the top of Pearson’s head. He’s studying the row of old National Geographics on the bookshelf. He runs his finger across their gold spines. 

Here they are. They’ve traded backwoods New Hampshire for backwoods Connecticut . Tyler rolls those names around his mind. Traded hockey for ditch-digging. He looks out the window, but it’s too dark to see anything now, and the cabin feels like a little bubble, so isolated, like everything outside could disappear and they’d never know until morning. Everything in here feels untouched, slipped out of time, and Tyler gets a bead of anxiety – a sense that they’re stuck, that they should be somewhere else, or doing something else – but what or where he doesn’t know. 

He takes another breath. 

By the time Tyler climbs back down, Pears has abandoned the bookshelf, and he’s studying the door that leads to the bedroom. It locks from the inside, and Pears is giving the deadbolt his undivided attention, running his fingers over the lock. 

Tyler clears his throat. 

Pears looks up, and he’s not as edgy as he was around Quick, but he still seems hesitant, almost cautious. Tyler’s not sure what he’s worried about. Tyler doesn’t know what he’s thinking. 

And for a moment, Tyler’s caught, startled by the thought that of everyone and everything he’s seen today, Pearson might be the most unfamiliar. 

Tyler gestures at the door. “You can have the bedroom.” 

Pears gets a sort of curious expression on his face. “Are you sure?” 

Tyler nods. “I’ll take the loft.” 

Pears smiles at that, but very small, face turned down to the ground. He looks quietly pleased, like he’s been given something he really wanted, but didn’t expect to get. He grabs one of the sets of sheets off the couch. “It’s late, I guess.” He hesitates, and then he nods at Tyler and then disappears into his room. The door closes behind him. Tyler can hear the lock click into place. 

Tyler doesn’t know him at all. 

 

 

In the morning, they eat bread smeared with peanut butter, and then they go to work. There are shovels and tools in the shed, and the half-begun trench gives them a place to start. But it’s not easy: the brush Quick wants cleared is mostly buckthorn and barberry, and something with thick, woody stems that Tyler doesn’t recognize and doesn’t yield easily. The sun comes down hot, stronger than Tyler can remember it being in a long, long time. 

Maybe it’s always been this hot down here in the summer. Or maybe this is new – Tyler doesn’t know. Maybe the world is changing around them in this climatological way in addition to whatever the fuck is happening with the people running the political show. Tyler’s not so entirely naïve as to think the two aren’t linked. 

Pears’ shovel clanks against his. 

Tyler was a million miles away, but now he blinks and looks down at the loose soil that’s been knocked back into what was cleared depth. 

Pears gives him a dark look. He drives the point of his shovel into the earth and lets it stand. Which Tyler takes to mean they’re taking a break. Tyler drops his shovel too, and rubs the back of his neck, which is starting to burn in the sun, and his wrist, which aches from the work. 

Pears is still glaring. “If you keep knocking those grass things with all the seeds back into the hole, all of this is going to be wasted effort.” 

Tyler looks from the hole back to Pears. “What grass things?” 

Pears rolls his eyes. “Okay.” He takes a breath and lets it out slow, like Tyler is being particularly frustrating. Like Tyler’s doing this on purpose or something. Then he pulls his t-shirt up to wipe his face, gives up, and strips it off, looping it around his neck like a towel. The newly-revealed skin is pale. 

Tyler looks away, back down at the earth because Pearson’s already irritated with him, he doesn’t need another reason to be. 

Pearson sighs. “Can you maybe start hauling the rocks we dug up out of the way?” 

And even out here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, doing this nothing project, Pears thinks he should be tasked with the remedial work. “You want me to haul rocks?” Tyler’s voice comes out incredulous. 

“Yeah, _Toffoli_ – ” Tyler’s name is laden with every ounce of import, every bit of _I-know-who-you-are-Rich-Kid_ that Pearson can possibly muster, “ – I want you to haul rocks. You wanna waltz or do that thing where you run through Latin verbs while you’re doing it, that’s your business.” 

Tyler has no idea what Pearson is talking about. All he can think about is Ms. Seiling, looming over him, hands flitting through the air as though conducting the world’s dullest, most unappealing orchestra, and Tyler’s voice filling in the gaps when she paused and pointed: a series of conjugations and declensions, so mind-numbingly boring it made even daydreaming hard, all his power to maintain thought sapped. 

But then he remembers that it _had_ come up in Manch – only because of the Latin the Morality Officer chanted at the beginning of games, which Cliche said was a warning to the visiting team, but was really just the Lord’s Prayer. 

Tyler had said as much, and he hadn’t expected the round of solidly dark looks from the team he got in response – no one in Manch liked the Morality Officers – what with their lectures about godliness and cleanliness and how they seemed to have a hundred different ways of saying, “don’t jerk off.” 

But it turned out that people dislike being corrected even more than they dislike Morality Officers. 

They hadn’t believed him, at first, that he knew Latin, until he’d declined _father_ and conjugated _to be_ – prattling off _is in heaven, was in heaven, will be, would be_. Which, naturally, had made everything worse. 

Tyler bristles at the memory, because they can hate him all they like, but he wasn’t wrong. And knowing things, that’s not _wrong_. And he’s flush with an anger he doesn’t know what to do with, because they’re out here, just him and Pearson, and Pearson still has to make sure he knows he’s not wanted, that everything about Tyler is off and he doesn’t fit. 

“Conjugate,” Tyler says, voice tight, because if Pearson’s going to stand there and insult him, he might as well get the word right. “You conjugate verbs.” 

Pears crosses his arms over his chest, like he’s ready for a fight, and the look on his face says he really doesn’t give a fuck about conjugation at all. 

Tyler mirrors him, crossing his own arms over his chest – and then he points down at their nascent ditch, and opens his mouth to voice just exactly how stupid it is that Pearson cares about this stupid trench – except – 

Except the leading edge that Pears has dug so far is all perfectly straight. Neat, even sides. Uniform depth. Like even in this make-work project, even with no one out here to see them, Pears wants this done well. Pears wants it done right. 

Tyler’s anger deflates. It’s possible Tyler is the one being an asshole in this situation. It might be more than possible, and his face colors. His hand drops and hovers at his side, uncertain. It would be nice to angry again – it would be really easy to yell, and maybe fight. But Tyler’ not angry, he’s just embarrassed. And he’s not sure what to do. 

Pears is watching him hesitate, a wary expression still on his face. 

Tyler manages a tight little shrug. “Okay.” He grabs the bucket they’ve placed off to the side, bends down, and tosses the first rock in. He straightens and looks at Pears. “Porto. Portas. Portat. Portamus.” He forces a weak smile. 

Pearson doesn’t say anything, and he keeps watching with a cautious expression while Tyler moves around him, collecting the rocks they’ve dug up and tossing them in a bucket to haul off. After a beat, Pears picks up his shovel again. 

They make faster progress after that. 

Tyler works to the rhythmic scrape and shuffle of Pears’ shovel. The thud of rocks hitting off each other in the bucket forming a counterpoint melody. When it gets full, he drags the bucket off and dumps it behind the cabin, where someone has already started a messy cairn. 

Pears catches him by the arm when Tyler next goes past. “We can switch jobs in the afternoon,” he says. His tone is soft. He holds onto Tyler just below his elbow. 

Tyler can feel the roughness of Pearson’s callouses – from stickhandling and from the weight bench – and new blisters from shoveling, and he can feel the careful press of his fingertips into the soft skin of Tyler’s inner arm. His touch lasts just long enough for it to be the only thing that has ever happened to Tyler, and for Tyler to lose all his words. 

Pearson looks amused while Tyler chokes and sputters, and for just a second, he smiles, before he lets Tyler’s arm go. 

 

 

It doesn’t take long for their days to settle into a rhythm. Tyler was always frustrated by their regimented schedule at Manchester – how they always had to eat at the same time, even if they didn’t feel like it, because there’d be no food offered again for hours. The way they were constantly shepherded around: from workout to skate to meal to games. Always together. No choice in it. But the sudden lack of all that is jarring – the first few days in the cabin are filled with long, uncomfortable pauses where Tyler looks at Pears and Pears looks back, asking the constant question: now what? 

So they make a schedule. And they stick to it. 

Tyler’s window faces east, and the midsummer sun rises early. Every morning, the room grows gray around him, the ceiling beams emerging from the shadows while Tyler shakes off last night’s dreams. The bed is soft and has a warm quilt, and the nights following their flight from Manchester are fresh enough in his mind to make him grateful for it. Each morning Tyler runs his fingers over the sheets and takes a second to appreciate that he’s inside, and warm, and relatively safe. And he takes a moment to hope that his parents are safe. That Dean is, and the players he sent to the Black are. That maybe the guys from Manch, against all odds, maybe they’re okay, too. 

His loft is also relatively private – at least compared to what he had in Manch, and that makes certain other things easier. 

Over the last few days, Pearson has entirely abandoned any intention of wearing a shirt while he works, which means Tyler has to spend a lot of time not-looking at Pearson’s flushed skin, at the pull and twist of muscle. Or looking, when Pearson’s face is turned away, but carefully not thinking about it until later, when he can pull those images out and pour over them in his mind, as if they were photographs on paper. Pearson’s also relaxed, just a little. He smiles easier at Tyler, and something about him seems looser here than he ever was in Manchester. 

Tyler drags his fingertips low across the skin of his stomach, and rolls his eyes at himself – stupid to be worked up over Pears’ sweat-slick skin, but stupider even than that to be left aching by Pearson’s soft, sleepy look in the evenings, or the magic, fleeting moments when Tyler can get him to smile. 

It doesn’t take long to bring himself off. 

He climbs down his ladder, washes his face and hands, and puts on water for coffee. The mornings are cool; he tucks his hands into his sleeves and stands with one bare foot resting on top of the other to minimize contact with the chilly floor. 

Back in Manchester, Pears was always one of the first ones up. Always the one ready and waiting while the rest of them dragged themselves upright. But it’s different here. Now Tyler is the first up, and Pears has his timing down to an art – he emerges from his room when Tyler’s just pouring the first cup of coffee. Pears comes out with eyelids still lowered, hair disarrayed, and looking slow and unfocused, like he’s been catching up on a lifetime of missed sleep, rather than just the last few days that they were on the move. 

It’s alright, though. Tyler likes the moments of solitude he gets before Pears is up. The sunlight on the dew-covered grass makes the whole valley radiant. The last couple of mornings, there have been deer, who picked a careful path along the tree line, and came so close to the cabin that Tyler could see the long lashes that framed their eyes. And there are a million different kinds of birds out in the morning, darting and swooping, picking insects from the grass. 

Breakfast is quiet, eaten side by side, leaning over the sink. Then they go work, slowly turning the overgrown hillside in front of them into the order of green on one side, stripe of bare earth down the center, and green on the other. And there is something gratifying in it. It feels good to accomplish something. To work, and be tired and sore for it after, but to look down and see their mark evident on the land. They both first burn then brown in the sun, and their clothes get sweat-stained, and Tyler’s hands have dirt permanently etched under his nails and in the creases of his palms. 

They break each day when it starts getting dark. They put the tools away and wash up before dinner. When it’s his turn for the shower, Tyler turns his face up into the spray. Their shower is small, but it feels good to rinse away the worst of the sweat and dirt. He keeps the water cool, and it’s nice against his skin, which still feels tight and itchy from being out in the sun all day. He works the soap between his hands – his blisters are starting to turn into new callouses. He tests his left wrist, making a fist and rotating it. It’s not sore, but it is still stiff. He lets the water beat down on his aching shoulders and watches the dark earth swirl down the drain. 

Then they make dinner. At first, they portioned out the food Jon Quick gave them with miserly care – not sure when Quick would be back, or even if Quick would be back. But at the end of the first week, an old truck had rolled up around noon, with a man in it who Tyler had recognized as one of the men who watched them arrive on that first day, and there at the cabin introduced himself as Bill. 

Bill took them into Hamden, where they were fed in the same backyard setup as before, although Jon Quick himself hadn’t done anything more than nod at them from across the yard. Bill had dropped them off back at the cabin afterwards with a fresh crate of groceries, and said that next time they should bring their laundry so they could do it in town, and that he’d see them in a week. 

 

 

Meals in Manchester were what they were – no alternates or second options given. But now, there are choices. And other than seeing Bill that one day, they’ve been alone. Which means they have to feed themselves. Which is harder than it sounds. Are they supposed to eat like it’s a game day? Are they supposed to eat like it’s a practice day? A rest day? Are they all rest days now – or is digging trenches enough exercise to count as a workout? 

All the sudden they have a million tiny, little decisions they have to make. 

The first night after their new grocery delivery, Tyler walks into the kitchen to find Pears frozen in front of their new abundance. “Are you going to make something?” 

Pears doesn’t answer. 

Tyler tries to look around Pears into the crate. “Do you want me to make something?” 

Pears has sort of taken over the cooking duties, which Tyler has acquiesced to, on account of the fact that Pears knows what he’s doing. But it’s possible maybe he doesn’t want to tonight. Maybe he’s tired. 

“No, I’ll do it,” Pears says, but he doesn’t move. 

“What are you going to make?” 

Pears makes a face. He runs his hands along the outside of the crate, looking irritated. Finally, he hands Tyler a handful of carrots, long feathery greens still attached. “Chop these.” 

Pears is just as picky about kitchen work as he is about the trench outside. He looks over Tyler’s shoulder when he’s halfway done and sighs. 

Tyler looks down at the pile of mostly coin-sized pieces in front of him. “What? You just said chop them. You didn’t say how big you wanted them.” 

“I don’t care how big they are. I just care that they’re all the same size.” Pears scowls. “If you didn’t know what you were doing, you could have just asked.” 

“Oh, yeah? And spend the next hour listening to you rip on me?” Which is just exactly what happened in Manch. Constantly. 

“Oh, like you didn’t rip on my skating all the time?” 

“That’s different,” Tyler says. “I was helping – ” 

Pears snorts. “Well, now I’m helping, okay?” He looks at Tyler and grins, just a little, like a truce offering. “Okay?” He holds out his hand, gestures for the knife. 

“Fine.” Tyler hands it to him. 

Pears nudges Tyler over, making space for himself at the counter. “Like this,” he says, demonstrating. “If they’re all the same size, they’ll all cook the same. And that makes my life easier.” 

Tyler watches his hands work, confident, steady. Pears showered before starting dinner and he’s close enough for Tyler to smell soap, and to see the wet hair at the nape of his neck starting to curl, the collar of his shirt still damp – 

“Toff?” Pears is holding the knife out, offering it back to Tyler. 

Tyler takes it, blushing. 

Pears watches while Tyler cuts the next few, standing next to him in silence. 

Tyler can feel the weight of his gaze. “What are we even making?” 

“Pasta. With carrots and peas and tomatoes. We used to make it back in Manchester, except, of course, all the vegetables were canned.” Pears gets a distant sort of smile. “Millsey would always sneak extra garlic into it. I’d add garlic, and then he’d go back and add more – every single time, and Nicky would get so pissed – ” He trails off, and he’s not smiling anymore. He looks away, out the window, blinking and mouth gone tight. 

Tyler stops chopping. The sadness on Pears’ face is so acute, so overwhelming it spills over into Tyler, and that need rises up in him again – they should besomewhere, they should be doing something – their friends could be out there somewhere. And Tyler’s parents are out there. And Dean. 

Pears looks so sad. This horrible ache wells up in Tyler. It makes Tyler feel helpless, desperate. Tyler looks down, at his hands. He catches his lip in his teeth. “At least you were good at it.” 

Pears looks over at him, expression gone curious. 

Tyler clears his throat. “I mean – I was so bad at everything. This one time, Joner was supposed to help me do laundry – ” Tyler darts a look at Pears, checking to see if he’s listening. “But Joner was busy, and I messed up, we had these brand new, red practice jerseys – ” 

Pears smiles a little, like he can see where this is going. 

“Right – so, then we all had pink shorts and pink socks, and it wasn’t so bad, except for the pink from the socks bled onto Joner’s goalie pads during practice. He was pissed, and he told me to clean them.” Tyler pauses. “So I got some bleach – ” 

Pears’ eyes get big. “Oh, no. Oh, Tyler – ” 

“Yeah. The sweat in the pads made the bleach turn a bunch of the white parts yellow. And I got it on the black parts, too. So they had these purple spots. Cliche thought it was hilarious. He kept saying we should get some blue in there, because then Joner would have a whole rainbow effect.” 

Pears starts to laugh. “What did Joner do?” 

“He didn’t talk to me for two weeks.” Tyler shrugs. “He eventually got new pads out of it though, so really he should have said thank you.” 

Pears stares at him for a second, and then he laughs so hard he shakes with it. He finally stops, a hand pressed to his side. “I can’t believe he let you live.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe he never told me about that.” He looks at Tyler. “I can’t believe _you_ told me about that.” 

It is, a pretty embarrassing amount of incompetence to admit to. But Pears is leaning up against the counter, right next to Tyler, so close if Tyler were to shift just a little they’d be hip to hip. “Yeah, well.” He can’t quite make himself look away from Pears’ face, the way he looks so happy, the way he’s grinning at Tyler. “I just – I just wanted to make you laugh, is all.” He looks away. Down at the pile of carrots in front of him. 

Pears doesn’t say anything right away. He does bump his shoulder into Tyler’s, though. He leans over Tyler. He pokes at a couple of carrot pieces with his finger, examining their size, and then lifts the cutting board. “Good work,” he says. 

 

 

Mostly after dinner they’ve been reading – working their way through the shelf of National Geographics – Pears usually curls into one corner of the couch, knees tucked up close to his chest, and Tyler will take the other side, and they pull issues at random – March 1983: lost ships; September 1989: the crusades; June 1985: a woman dressed in red, with ghostly green eyes. 

Tyler likes the issues about animals – especially the strange looking ones, ones he’s never seen or dreamed of seeing: huge-eyed lemurs and slippery dolphins and birds with wild-colored tails that trail far out behind them. 

He usually puts the issues about war back. 

Pears reads with a steady intensity. He starts on the first page of his chosen issue and works his way through to the last, as if it were one continuous story, instead of many held together by chance of arrangement. He doesn’t skip a single page, although Tyler has noticed that sometimes he’ll double back, flipping to a previous page and then away again. He reads with the magazine close up to his chest though, angled so Tyler can’t see the pages, so it’s impossible to say whether he’s re-examining some chart or graph, or simply returning to a favorite picture. 

They don’t talk much in the evenings. Tyler sometimes makes tea, when he sets a mug in front of Pears he gets a murmured _thank you_. But that might be it for the evening. It doesn’t make it bad, though. It feels easy. It feels good to be quiet with someone. 

And then at some point, Pears will yawn and stretch and set the magazine aside. He looks at Tyler, with his head resting on his arm, his eyes sleepy. Sometimes Tyler keeps his eyes down on the page and pretends to keep reading. Sometimes he looks back. 

That is always the quietest moment of the whole day. 

Then Pears gets up, and takes his mug into the kitchen. When he comes back out, he walks past Tyler sitting on the couch, and sometimes he’ll touch Tyler lightly on the shoulder or on the back of his head. “Goodnight.” 

And then every evening Tyler watches him go into his room, and close the door, and he listens to the lock click shut. 

 

 

Every night in the cabin, up under the eaves, Tyler dreams. He dreams mostly about Manchester. Small, normal moments: stretching in the hallway before games, lacing up his skates with Vey next to him. Sitting by Wealer on the bus and watching his head begin to list as he drops toward sleep. The dreams are both so vivid and so innocuous they feel real, and the mornings he wakes from those dreams, Tyler is struck all over with the dry, cold ache of surprise and fresh loss. 

He also dreams of his father. 

This night, he dreams he is playing in a game in Manchester, but he knows through that magic of dream logic that his father is in the stands. He’s skating well, and he’s pleased, and the feel of the puck on his stick is solid and right and easy. Tyler laughs. The game feels like a good game – one of those games you know from the start that things are going to break right and not only are they going to win, but it’s going to be beautiful – plays are going to be perfect, the goals are going to be art. 

The opposing D skates up to meet him at the blue line so Tyler looks up, looks for Vey or Pears, and he finds Vey by the half-wall, his stick on the ice. He’s bright under the lights, outlined against the dark wash of the stands behind him, and – 

Tyler squints, and he can make out something moving in the stands behind Vey. Not the random, liquid movement of the crowd, but something with precise, lockstep rhythms. It’s too dark to make out, but Tyler can see something crawling through the stands, a shadow in the dark. 

He’s struck by panic. He needs to warn people. Vey needs to get away from the glass. And his father is in the stands; he needs to get to his father in the stands. Tyler’s so cold all over. He’s frozen, rooted to the spot, and it takes him a lifetime to get to the glass, like his skates are an inch deep in the ice. He’s so slow, far too slow. He’s filled with a sick terror that he’s too late. 

It takes eons to get his gloves off, and he pounds his hands against the glass, trying to shout but he can’t find his voice. Trying to see, but it’s so dark in the stands and so bright on the ice. He pounds his fists against the glass and the barrier waves and shakes, sending booming and clattering echoes up and down the ice. 

Tyler snaps awake, heart lodged up in his throat, pulse pounding. A roaring noise fills the air, and in the dark, the sound seems to come from everywhere all at once. 

Tyler sits upright, muscles tensed, poised to flee. He waits, seeing if the noise will come again. 

It does. 

A low boom shakes the cabin and sets the windows to rattling in their frames. For a second, the night is lit up all around him. 

The noise is all around him, and then the ghost of the smell of smoke fills his nostrils. He gets out of bed, not thinking about where he’s going, just knowing he doesn’t want to be up here. Doesn’t want to be alone with this noise and this shaking. He shivers, his t-shirt is sweat-soaked, his heart is beating rabbit-fast. 

His sweaty palms make the ladder hard to grip as he climbs down, but he manages it. And just as he steps away from the last rung, Pears emerges from his room, stands wide-eyed in the dark. 

The booming noise comes again, Tyler winces and freezes and they both stare out the window. The sky to the east is lit up orange and hazy, some unnatural and misplaced sunset. 

Pears flips on the lamp with unsteady hands. “What’s happening?” 

Tyler shakes his head. 

Pears turns back to the window. He rubs his hands quick across his arms. His face is pale. He looks like he did in the drive through Manchester, in that ruined city. The fear on his face just as vivid as it had been looking up the verse scrawled atop a shifting tower of debris. Maybe that tower is falling now, maybe it’s crushed whoever chanced by, just like it could have crushed them. Pears’ eyes stay fixed on the horizon. “What are we supposed to do?” 

Tyler swallows. “I don’t know.” It comes out very small and uncertain. His teeth are trying to chatter, even though it’s not that cold in the cabin. Even though he keeps thinking about heat, about flames. He doesn’t know if there is anything to do. Whatever’s happening is happening far away – but what if it comes closer? What if this is just the start? 

They stand, shoulder to shoulder at the window, both of them in their shorts and t-shirts, staring east. 

Pears’ face is so close it almost touches the glass. “Should we – leave?” 

“I don’t know.” Where would they even go? Tyler keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon, like he could somehow prevent anything bad from happening if he doesn’t look away. 

They wait. Waiting for it to get worse. Or better. Anything but this impossible, hanging, uncertainty. 

The glow in the distance fades and shrinks to a small point. No more noises tear the night. The minutes tick past. 

Pears finally steps away from the window. “I think it’s over.” 

It’s not over. Not in Tyler’s mind – and he can’t turn away, can’t stop straining to see something out the window, certain something will explode the instant he looks away. Over and over and over again in his mind he watches the gates of the compound bursting into flame – and those pieces of tree sent flying, the burned branches on the ground – 

Tyler shakes his head. If he opens his mouth, he has no idea what he’s going to say. Something awful and embarrassing, like, _I’m still scared._ Or, _Please stay with me_. And so he presses his lips together, so the words won’t escape. 

Tyler’s shivering, can’t stop shivering, even when Pears looks at him. 

Pears touches his arm. Touches his hand. 

Tyler has his arms wrapped around himself, and when he looks down, he sees he’s taken a white-knuckled grip on his own flesh, nails biting into the skin of his arm. 

Pears puts his arm around him. 

This is an un-looked for miracle. Pears’ arm is a warm weight across Tyler’s shoulders. He stands close enough that Tyler can turn his face just a little and tuck it into Pears’ neck. 

Pears’ hand cups the back of his head. “Do you want to read for a while?” 

Tyler nods, so relieved Pears isn’t disappearing behind his closed door he doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

They take their usual places on the couch, the cabin creaking and groaning around them, and even if it’s just the wind now, each new noise makes Tyler jump. Tyler has a magazine open in front of him, but he can’t stop shifting. He can’t stop thinking about when the Union came to Manchester. And the gates of the compound exploding into flames – and if he remembers, if he really lets himself remember – 

Tyler shuts that down. Tyler doesn’t think about that. Tyler doesn’t let himself think about that. His eyes are burning. The magazine slips in his hands. 

Pears clears his throat. “What’s a monsoon?” 

Tyler blinks. He looks up and Pears’ eyes are wide looking back at him. Tyler’s not sure he’s heard right. “What?” 

Pears clears his throat again. He frowns a little. “A monsoon. Am I saying it right?” 

“Yeah.” Tyler hesitates. “It’s – like a really big rainstorm.” 

Pears nods and looks back down at the magazine. “What are organic molecules?” 

This is new. Pears hasn’t ever asked him about the magazine’s content before. Tyler tries to recall his long-dormant and cobwebbed chemistry knowledge. “The stuff that makes up, like, plants and animals and things that are alive. What are you reading about?” 

“Saturn,” Pears says, without hesitation. “What do you mean ‘makes them up’?” 

“What they’re built out of,” Tyler says. “Like the arena is made of bricks, and this cabin is made of wooden boards.” Tyler settles back against the couch, watching him, but Pears’ face gives no indication of why Saturn of all things has driven him to pick Tyler’s brain. 

Pears nods, and continues to look at him like he’s waiting for Tyler to say more. “Uh, and organic compounds have carbon in them. Which is special because it can form a lot of bonds with other molecules. Either four or six, I can’t remember.” The panic recedes a little further, allowing him more clarity. “Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s four. And that lets them make, like, chains, which – why do you care about carbon?” 

Pears shrugs. His eyes drop back to the magazine. He turns the page. “Where is Mount Everest?” 

“Nepal.” Tyler breathes in and exhales slow, his heart has stopped racing. His palms are dry. “In Asia.” 

“Where is Nanga Parbat?” 

Tyler breathes again. He looks up at the ceiling and frowns. “Say it again.” 

Pears glances up. “Nanga Parbat?” 

Tyler looks at him and shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

The corner of Pears’ mouth pulls up, just the tiniest bit. He looks pleased. Almost smug. “Finally.” He goes back to his reading, but he shuffles himself and stretches out until his feet are in Tyler’s lap. Tyler gives them a half-hearted shove, but Pears just immediately replaces them, and Tyler’s hand ends up resting on the bare skin of his ankle. Pears doesn’t pull away, just works himself deeper into the couch, his shirt rucking up and his shorts riding low to expose a vivid tan line. 

Tyler stares at the bright, white skin of his hip and breathes again and thinks, at some point in the future, he is going to look back on this summer, and this is what he’s going to remember most: the sounds of the unknown night around them, the particular, archaic curl of National Geographic’s font, and this warmth, this blissful ache, of wanting Pears, and him being so, so close. 

Tyler’s magazine has slipped away, any pretense of reading gone. He breathes, and looks at his hand, resting on the delicate bones of Pears’ ankle. He can hear the quiet sound of Pears turning pages, and if he closes his eyes, beyond that he can hear the wind in the trees outside, a low, constant shuffle like the sound of women in fancy dresses moving through a crowded party. He can hear crickets, the rile and hum of their chirp as they call out to each other. He can hear the cabin, the tired moan of its foundation. 

“You never touched anybody, back in Manch,” Pears says quietly. “That’s how I knew you were queer.” 

All the breath goes out of Tyler, his eyes snap open and he stares, head suddenly empty of every single thought. 

Pears looks back, placid. 

Tyler swallows, once, twice, and he can feel new sweat pricking up along his hairline and the blood rush to his face. Seconds are ticking away. He should say something. He has to say something. “What?” 

Pears cocks his head. “Nobody’s that careful about not touching anyone, or not looking, unless they’re queer.” 

Tyler is going to die if he doesn’t start breathing. He might die anyway. He can feel his mouth hanging open and he forces it shut, but he’s still just staring at Pears like an idiot. Pears just keeps staring back, unmoved. 

Pears shrugs. “You were pretty good at fooling people, I guess. Some of the guys thought you were weird because you were rich. Or something crazy, like that you were a Union spy. But I knew you weren’t. I knew you were just queer.” 

Tyler might throw up. Tyler’s whole body is numb. He looks down at Pears’ foot, still resting in his lap, and at his own hand, resting on Pears’ ankle. He snatches his hand back, like Pears’ skin had suddenly gone hot. Tyler tries to swallow again; his voice comes out too-high, close to breaking. “You’re – you’re not upset?” 

He only realizes after the words have escaped that it’s basically an admission of guilt. Maybe he should have lied, maybe it was some kind of test, maybe Pears – 

Pears isn’t smiling, but he’s not frowning either. “It’s not the worst thing in the world.” 

Tyler really might throw up. And Pearson – Pearson who _kissed_ him – is sitting there like he doesn’t care at all. Pearson who _jerked him off_ – and then – “You called me a faggot,” Tyler says. It was supposed to come out joking, it was supposed to come out light, but Tyler barely gets it out at all, voice almost cracking at the end. He looks away; there’s old hurt lodged there, fresher than he thought it’d be. 

Pears sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry I called you that.” 

Tyler nods without looking at him. 

Pears hasn’t moved his feet from where they are, resting in Tyler’s lap. 

Tyler takes one breath. Then two. And it feels like another miracle – even more unexpected than Pears’ arm around his shoulders. It feels like a pardon, like grace, for Pears to know this and not care, or at least not mind too much. Tyler is filled with a sudden, intense gratitude. He’s here, and he’s alive, and he’s not alone. And Pears know this and knows about his father, and has stayed with him, and maybe likes him, is maybe his friend. The feeling of warmth of fills him, overwhelms him, and he can’t speak. He returns his hand to Pears’ ankle. 

Pears returns to his magazine. 

And around them, the night stays quiet. 

 

 

Clouds loom low the day of their third visit to Hamden. Tyler’s waiting by the window, and when he sees the truck pulling up, he calls, “Our ride’s here.” 

Pears knocks back the last of the glass of water he was drinking and sets it in the sink. He passes Tyler the empty grocery crate and grabs the bag containing their dirty laundry, the easy steps of a now-established ritual. Tyler follows him to the door, and he catches the passing flicker of a frown on Pears’ face, the half-beat moment of hesitation on the doorstep when he steels himself. 

Pears in the cabin and Pears when they head into Hamden are so different they might almost be two completely separate people. Tyler, of course, has always watched Pears closely. In the beginning, he told himself this was because he was on Tyler’s team, and it was important for Tyler to be able to predict what he was going to do on the ice. And because he was a rookie, and Tyler was _supposed_ to watch out for him. But that, as Wayne might have said, and had in fact said about many things over the years Tyler knew him, was _grade A bullshit._

Tyler watched Pears because on the ice he was exciting, and off the ice – Tyler blushes. Off the ice he watched him for reasons Tyler probably shouldn’t be thinking about, especially now that they’re maybe, almost friends. 

The wind has kicked up outside. They pitch the bag and crate into the back of the truck and climb into the cab. Bill nods at them, and puts the truck in gear. 

Even before they left Manch, Tyler would have said Pears plays to the crowd a little bit, but now that they’re alone together almost all of the time, the differences are black and white, and impossible to miss. In Hamden, in Jon Quick’s backyard, Pears acts open and friendly and engaging. He’s quick to smile and he talks to everyone. His grin is really wide, and he remembers everyone’s name, and sits all sprawled out, legs stretched in front of him, seemingly completely at ease. 

But he’s not. And Tyler knows it – because now he knows what Pears looks like when he’s really relaxed. And this overly bright, charming version of Pearson isn’t him at all. Pears is prickly, and sarcastic, and particular about how he wants things done. Pears is quiet, and he likes having his own space, and left alone he’ll curl himself into a little ball – feet tucked under him and arms pulled in close. And the smile he gets when he’s really, actually pleased by something is small and crooked and comes and goes so quickly you miss it if you aren’t watching very close. 

Despite the weather, dinner is still served outside. A giant tarp has been stretched to cover the space. It flutters and shakes in the wind. Tyler sets his plate down at the empty seat next to him. The grin Pears is wearing right now is false, but you’d never know it from just glancing at him. His laugh comes so easy, his mimicking of comfort and ease so note-perfect. Tyler thinks maybe there’s something admirable in how he can adapt so quickly, but he’s not sure what it means, that Pears is so good at it. 

Pears glances up. “This is my brother, Jordan.” He gestures at each of the three boys who are sitting across the table. “This is Jo and Ben and Victor.” And knowing Pears, he probably already knows all about them – knows their favorites colors and middle names, favorite foods and childhood pets. 

All Tyler wants to do in these weekly visits to Hamden is keep his head down, and not do anything to stand out. He nods at each of them and sits down. 

“We just came up from the Black  & Blue,” Victor says. He has dark hair and dark eyes, and a scar on his cheek that’s still shiny and pink. 

Ben, who towers over both his companions, rolls his eyes. “Florida,” he says, dragging the name out like this is not his first time making the correction. 

Victor looks embarrassed, and it’s not really fair, Tyler thinks. Everything changed basically overnight – Quick and his people use new names for everywhere, which are actually old names, although it’s unlikely Victor knows that. And they’re not even – Tyler worries at his lip – they’re not even really _decided_. Everything’s still up in the air. Everything’s still uncertain. 

Victor shrugs. “Anyway, like I was saying, there wasn’t ever much of a Union presence down there.” 

“And the ones that were there down there high-tailed it out fast,” Ben says, “after Dustin Brown set everything off.” 

Ben looks down, and there is the requisite pause – a half beat of silence – that Tyler has learned follows every mention of Dustin Brown’s name. 

“It’s not like up north,” Jo says. “Or Chicago. I’ve heard Chicago is bad.” 

Tyler scowls. All they ever get are rumors. Nobody ever really seems to know anything for sure, despite the fact that Quick was clearly connected to Dustin Brown, and both of them were connected to Dean. The phone network exists – Tyler knows it does. Which means Quick knows something. He could be giving them more information, even if it’s not about what’s happening out here, he must know about some of the Manchester kids who were sent west, like Joner and Nolly. He just – hasn’t bothered to tell them anything about it. 

Jo looks uncertain, like he thinks Tyler is frowning at him, when really Jo’s just in the way. Jo just wants to sound like he has something to say. And now that Tyler’s looking at him, it’s clear Jo’s younger than either of his companions, younger than Pears or Tyler. His hair’s long and ragged, gone too long between cuts, but his face is smooth, a smattering of acne across his cheeks. 

Tyler wonders if Jon Quick is going to put a gun in his hands. Tyler wonders if Quick’s going to send him off to face down the Union. 

During one of their meals in Hamden, there was a group of men who had been armed, who ate quickly, and whose eyes flickered constantly around the yard. But they’d stuck very close to each other; they hadn’t seemed particularly interested in swapping stories. 

Tyler wonders if Jo is going to end up one of them. 

Tyler’s stomach turns and he pushes his plate away. Three weeks in the valley doing nothing. Three weeks watching other people go off to fight and not come back. Three weeks of not knowing anything new, and what are they even doing? Digging ditches in some Connecticut backwater while Jonathan Quick sends children off to war? Tyler grinds his jaw, his eyes cut back to Jo. “Hey, how old are you?” 

It’s clear Jo was in the middle of saying something that Tyler missed because he wasn’t paying attention. Jo stops and stammers for a moment. “Me? Seventeen.” 

Tyler frowns harder, and after a beat, Jo looks away and coughs, and continues with whatever he was saying. Pears kicks Tyler under the table, and when Tyler glances his way, he’s giving Tyler a sharp look. 

Tyler wants to say: don’t you see what a fucking joke this is? Seventeen – Jo should be back home with his family, not here. And Tyler can feel himself getting mad, because who thought this was a good idea? Who thought this was even possibly for one moment okay? 

He thinks: _Dean, if you really are running things, we’re gonna have words_. He looks around, but Jon Quick is nowhere to be seen, and sitting in Quick’s yard, picking at the food in front of him, Tyler feels stagnant, like they’ve been lured off-course. Like they should be doing something more important than digging a ditch that no one’s even bothered to check up on. Three weeks in – they promised Jon Quick a month, that time’s almost up, and Quick’s not even _here_ to complain to about holding up his end of the bargain. 

Rain is starting to patter on the tarp overhead. Tyler gets up. Tyler’s going to find him. He tosses a nod to Jo and his friends and at Pears – who shoots him a concerned look. Tyler does his best to smile. “Just gonna run inside for a minute.” 

But Quick’s not in the kitchen, or the office where he first interviewed Tyler and Pears, or anywhere in the house. Tyler does find someone he recognizes – Tyler doesn’t know his name, but he’s older than most of the guys that hang out at Quick’s, one of the few that openly carries a gun, and he’s usually with Quick. He’s sitting on the front porch when Tyler walks up to him, and he looks startled for a moment when Tyler taps him on the shoulder. “I’m looking for Quick.” 

The man is clearly taken aback, and he hesitates, so Tyler draws himself up. He’s a hockey player and he’s over six feet tall, and he can use that when he has to. “I need to speak to him.” 

The man’s mouth hangs open a little bit. He doesn’t say anything – but his eyes dart to the house across the street, and that’s enough. Tyler takes off at a quick walk. 

“Hey!” The man catches up to Tyler just as Tyler’s knocking on the front door. He grabs Tyler’s shoulder, spinning him around. “You can’t just – ” 

Jon Quick opens the door. He looks from Tyler to the man standing behind him. 

“Sorry,” the man starts, “I tried to – ” 

Quick sighs. He looks Tyler up and down. 

Tyler lifts his chin. 

Quick’s eyes flick back over and he shrugs. “It’s fine.” He looks back at Tyler. 

“I want to talk to you,” Tyler says. 

Quick glances behind him, and through the open doorway, Tyler can hear the clink of flatware, and on the ground he can see what look like children’s toys. Quick steps fully out onto the front porch and pulls the door shut behind him. “Sure. Okay. Let’s talk.” He nods at the man behind Tyler, a clear dismissal, and heads over to the porch swing and sits down. He gestures for Tyler to take the spot the next to him. 

Tyler sits. 

Quick pats down his shirt’s front pockets and when he comes up empty he sighs and shrugs and looks at Tyler. 

He looks, Tyler realizes, very, very tired. 

“So.” Quick looks at him. “Something weird happen? Any strange cars come through the valley? Anybody you don’t know?” 

“No.” Tyler hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing like that. Although – last week we heard these rumblings, and we saw what looked like a fire far off.” 

“Yeah.” Quick leans back. “That was probably the munitions depot in Norwich. We blew it up.” 

He says it in the same flat tone you might say, “We had ham for lunch,” or “It rained last Saturday.” Like it was nothing. 

Just something else Quick never bothered to tell them about. “You haven’t given us any news, you haven’t told us _anything_. A lot of people we knew ended up in the Black and – ” 

Quick rubs the bridge of his nose. “Look, kid. I wish I had news to give you, but I don’t.” 

It’s so frustrating to have to sit here and listen to him _lie_ , right to Tyler’s face. Quick might not care about anybody he’s sending off to fight, but there are lots of people Tyler does care about, and people Pears cares about. People Tyler needs to find, they can’t stay here, off the grid in this valley forever. “What are we doing here?” Frustration bleeds into his tone. “You’re blowing things up. You’re sending kids out to fight, to get shot, and we’re _here_ – digging a fucking ditch in a random valley.” 

Quick’s eyes narrow. “I told you exactly what I wanted from you, and exactly what I’d give you in return. I don’t know what else you think I owe you.” 

Tyler seethes. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think you even fucking care about that ditch. I want to know why we’re here. I want to know – ” 

“That fucking ditch is what I asked you to do. Jordan.” He says the name looking right at Tyler, his eyes looking straight into Tyler’s eyes, and Tyler goes cold all over. Quick’s voice is flat, rough. “So digging that fucking ditch is what I need you to do.” 

Tyler’s throat goes dry. Because Jon doesn’t look sleepy anymore; he isn’t smirking, he isn’t casual. His look is dark and hard and focused. And Tyler knows that look. That’s the face that of someone who knows more than he’s telling you. That’s a look that says, _if you’re smart, you’ll stop asking._ That’s a look that says, _you’d be right to be afraid._

Tyler is so angry for a moment he can’t possibly speak, so angry he could burn from the inside out. And afraid. 

Quick stands, and Tyler follows suit. He opens his mouth, but there’s nothing more to say. He can feel the weight of Quick’s gaze on him as he leaves the porch and steps out into the rain. When he turns and looks from midway across the street, Quick is still watching him. But he doesn’t really look angry anymore. He looks tired again. The rain is getting heavier, turning from drizzle into fat, heavy drops. Tyler pulls his collar up and hurries the rest of the way back to the common house. 

He finds Pears standing in the nearly-empty room Quick uses as an office. He startles when Tyler appears in the doorway, and then he looks relieved. “There you are. I was looking for you.” He comes out to join Tyler in the hallway. 

Tyler shakes some of the water out of his hair and shrugs. “I wanted to talk to Quick.” Not that he’d learned much. Not that Quick had been at all helpful. 

Pears’ mouth twists. He looks like he’s going to ask something, but Bill walks through the front door, water beading off his oilskin coat, and running off the bill of his cap. “Really starting to come down out there. You boys ready?” 

 

 

The rain continues the whole drive back to the cabin, great sheets of it that turn the landscape outside into an abstract blur. Tyler watches the colors out the window run, until it gets too dark to see anything. Then he thinks about Jon Quick, and all the things he might know and isn’t saying. 

Pears watches him, and he starts to ask something, but then he seems to think better of it, and turns his attention out the window, too. 

They sprint from the truck to the cabin’s porch, Tyler going as fast as he can in the dark and the wet, under the weight of the groceries, but it’s far enough to leave both of them wet and dripping. Tyler starts for the kitchen, but Pears calls, “Wait. You’ll track mud everywhere.” He tosses the bag of laundry away, shucks his jacket, and starts to reach for Tyler, but then he hesitates. 

Tyler must still look sour. He gives Pears a small grin, trying to say: I’m not mad at you. 

Pears rests his hand on Tyler’s shoulder, leans on Tyler for balance while he pulls off his shoes, one at a time. Tyler can smell the rainwater and the earthy scent of the mud. 

Barefoot, he takes the groceries from Tyler, and leaves Tyler to toe his own shoes off. 

Tyler follows him into the kitchen. Pears is dressed in some of the clothes Jackie found for them, jeans and a worn button-down with the sleeves rolled. He’s moving with neat, economical motions, putting things away, and Tyler leans against the doorframe, pausing for just a moment to watch him work. 

Pears glances up, one eyebrow climbing. “You gonna help?” 

Tyler steps up beside him, starts pulling aside the produce that needs washing. 

“Everything alright?” Pears says it without pausing in his motions, without really looking at Tyler. 

“Yeah.” Tyler turns the faucet on, letting the cold water run over his hands. 

“What did Quick say?” 

That’s a good question. Tyler hesitates. “He said the fire we saw was a munitions depot in Norwich. That they blew it up.” 

“Oh.” Pears pauses for a moment, hands hesitating at the cupboard. 

Tyler shrugs. Maybe the better question is not what did Quick say, but what did he mean? And what didn’t he say? He didn’t say that all this ditch-digging is bullshit, but he may as well have. He didn’t say he thought Tyler was lying about his name, but it certainly sounded like he did. And if Quick’s so sure that’s a lie, what else does he know about them? What reason does he have for keeping them tucked away out here, when everyone else is out there, facing down god knows what? 

Tyler thinks about the hatred in Eric’s eyes and the way his hand had felt, wrapped around Tyler’s throat. His stomach turns. He blinks, trying to clear his head and grabs a head of lettuce, sticking it under the stream of water. 

Thinking about Quick again, there is some small satisfaction in systematically dismembering the lettuce and tearing it into small pieces. If Quick was going to do something to them, he’s had three weeks to do it. He hasn’t done anything but keep them out here. Isolated but safe. 

Tyler grabs the radishes next, scrubbing the dirt off them with his fingers. He keeps coming back to the fact that they don’t know anything. And as long as they don’t know anything, they don’t have any options but to bide their time and see what happens. Tyler’s mouth twists. He pushes the radishes aside. 

Pears touches the small of Tyler’s back as he moves past him. He looks over Tyler’s shoulder at the growing pile of clean vegetables, the lettuce torn set aside to dry. “Look at that,” Pears says. “You’re almost good at this now.” 

There’s a light, teasing note in his voice. Tyler glances up at his face, and there are parts of this – this holding pattern – that aren’t so bad. That are almost unbearable in how good they are. He can feel the warmth of Pears’ touch through his shirt. Tyler looks back down and blushes. He flicks water at Pears, and Pears moves away laughing. 

Tyler finishes and dries his hands, and when he turns around, Pears is leaning up against the kitchen cabinets, a sly smile on his face, like he’s got some secret he’s pleased about. 

Tyler frowns back at him, uncertain what the joke is. “What?” 

Pears’ grin goes a little wider. “Guess what I nicked from Quick.” 

He looks very pleased with himself. Tyler is skeptical. “You stole something from Jon Quick?” 

Pears reaches into his breast pocket and comes out with one of Quick’s cigarettes. He shows it to Tyler, holding it carefully between two fingers. 

“I –” Tyler hesitates. He meets Pears’ eyes. “Really?” 

Pears is still grinning. He catches his lip between his teeth. “C’mon,” he says. “It’ll be fun.” 

He lights the cigarette off the stove and takes a long pull. He waves Tyler over – and really, that more than the idea of smoking is the real draw. Pears is smiling at him; Pears wants to share; Pears wants him near. He holds the cigarette out to Tyler. 

Tyler takes it, and holds it, nervous about not knowing what he’s doing, and nervous about looking stupid doing it. He brings it up to his lips, holding it with what must look like an absurd amount of care. 

The smoke is bitter and harsh against his throat. He coughs. He holds one hand to his mouth and passes it back to Pears, who seems to be trying very hard not to laugh. 

Pears takes another pull and blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He holds it back out to Tyler, who hesitates. “C’mon, Tyler.” Pears’ eyes look a little irritated, a little sleepy, and his grin is crooked. “Once more.” His fingers brush Tyler’s when he hands it back. 

Tyler knows what to expect now, and that makes it easier, although he still coughs. Tyler has no idea how Quick does this all day. But that image, the idea that secretly Jon Quick just spends all day trying not to cough, seems really funny. Tyler bites his lip, he can feel his mouth pulling up into a smile. 

Pears’ grin as he takes the cigarette back is slow and lazy. “Yeah, yeah. There you go.” 

Tyler wants to tell him what’s so funny, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth, and the words won’t come. He shrugs at Pears, and that seems really funny, too. 

Pears starts to laugh. 

Tyler feels flushed, like he can feel all the blood rushing around under his skin. His mouth is dry; he tries to swallow. “I feel – my skin feels strange,” he tells Pears – it’s not enough to really get across the buzzing that’s happening in his head and all through his chest, and all across his skin. “Is that weird?” 

Pears stops laughing long enough to shake his head. “No. You’re just high.” 

“I’m just – oh,” Tyler says. “Oh.” 

Pears laughs really hard at that. Laughs until he’s almost crying. He eventually settles, and he ashes the cigarette, carefully pinches it out, and sets it aside. He shakes his head at Tyler. “You haven’t – of course you haven’t.” He still looks very much amused. 

Then he reaches out, and he takes hold of Tyler’s face in his hands. “Tyler. You should be proud. This is a new accomplishment for you.” He’s working to keep a straight face, but he loses it at the end, slipping back into a grin. His fingers tips are resting just behind Tyler’s ears and along his jaw. His thumbs are warm on Tyler’s cheeks. 

Tyler can feel each and every bit of pressure against his skin. He can feel his heart thudding away inside his chest. Pears is close, close enough that it’s easy, it’s almost natural, for Tyler to rest his hands on Pears’ hips. 

Pears doesn’t step back. He doesn’t shift away. Tyler can hear a slight, wet hitch in Pears’ breathing. He feels warm under Tyler’s hands, and his fingertips are hot on Tyler’s face, and Tyler’s lightheaded with it. Every shift lights him up. Every breath makes his lungs ache. His fingertips smooth over the fabric of Pears’ shirt, and Tyler swallows. “Hey.” 

He must sound inane, but Pears just smiles at him, sleepy around the eyes. “Hey, yourself.” 

He’s so close. He’s so warm. His hands move on Tyler’s face, thumb dragging down his cheek to touch the corner of his mouth. Tyler wants to press his face into that hand. He wants to press his whole self into Pears. The want stabs at the pit of him, the want claws at him, urges his fingers to clutch, his hips to move, and every part of him that says _no_ not to care. 

Pears wets his lips. 

Tyler goes hot all over. So hot he could burst with it. “Do you remember when you – when we – ” Tyler’s gotta be so red he’s glowing. It’s hard to breathe. His mouth is so dry he has to stop and swallow. He presses on in a rush, “When you got me off? I would do that again – or, I would do that for you. To you, I mean. I would.” 

Pears’ expression is sort of glazed, and he’s looking at Tyler’s mouth. He goes very still when the words sink in, and then he steps back, pulling out of Tyler’s grasp. 

The loss of contact hurts. Tyler’s face burns where Pears’ touch was. His hands curl, empty of everything but air. 

Pears leans back against the kitchen counter, almost casual. He doesn’t say anything at all. And then he reaches down and undoes his belt, pops the button of his jeans, looking at Tyler the whole time. Then he just stands there, waiting. 

Tyler stops breathing. He tries taking a step forward, and Pears doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything at all. Just watches him. Tyler reaches across the space, rests his hand along the fly. Pears is warm and starting to get hard in his jeans. 

This could go very bad. This could end with another cold look, with Pears yelling at him. This could end with them fighting, and all alone, out here, when he’s got no one else – 

Pears looks down, at Tyler’s hand lying across the front of his pants, and then back up, at Tyler. His eyes are dark. His lips are parted just a little bit. 

Tyler’s done thinking. Tyler tugs his pants the rest of the way open, and Pears shuffles his stance a little to help him along. He can feel the warmth radiating off Pears’ body. 

Pears’ eyes flutter shut when Tyler slides his hand inside, and when Tyler takes a grip on his dick, he lets his head loll backwards. 

Tyler works on instinct – he has no fucking idea what he’s doing, but the mechanics of it, of touching someone else – they aren’t that different from getting himself off. Tyler can’t really see much, but the smoothness of him, the heat of him is exciting. He’s slippery – the way Tyler gets when he’s really worked up. When he’s close. 

Pears widens his stance. He grips the edge of the counter. Tyler watches him swallow, watches the small muscles of his throat work. 

Pears stays silent: his breathing’s starting to get quick, starting to catch, but he doesn’t make a single sound. It makes everything else louder: Tyler’s pulse, and his own raspy breathing, and soft sound of skin sliding against skin. He gets even harder in Tyler’s grip, his hips lift into Tyler’s touch. Tyler shivers and goes faster. Pears’ squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip when he comes – his whole body goes stiff for a second, taut like a plucked string, and he spills over Tyler’s fingers. 

Tyler’s not really sure what to do now. Pears’ head is bent forward, his face hidden. The line of his shoulders gone loose and fluid. 

Tyler starts to shift away. Pears lifts his head, looks at him, soft and sort of lazy. He catches Tyler by the belt loops and pulls him close again. 

Tyler sucks in air. “Pears – ” He gets another flicker of anxiety – but it’s overwhelmed by a sea of want. Tyler’s floating in it. Tyler’s lost in it. “Please,” he says. “Please.” 

Pears undoes his belt, pulls his pants open with quick, rough motions. 

The air is cool on Tyler’s skin. 

Tyler can’t stay quiet. He shivers, he moans his way through it. Leans on Pears and pushes back into his grip, even as Pears’ hand clamps down on his hip to keep him from moving too far. Tyler groans his frustration when he’s close, and when Pears tightens his grip and speeds up, he gasps and pants, and presses his face into Pears’ neck when he comes. 

Tyler’s breathing slows, and he can feel Pears’ other hand, resting against the back of his neck, stroking softly. Pears leans over and grabs a rag to clean them both up. 

Pears doesn’t say anything, but Tyler can hear him breathing, close, just next to Tyler’s ear. He can hear him swallow, even as he steps away. 

He squeezes Tyler’s hip. His breath is warm against Tyler’s ear. “Good night, Ty.” 

 

 

Tyler opens his eyes and blinks up at the peaked ceiling of his sleeping loft. Just exactly the same bit of it he was staring at when he finally closed his eyes last night. He shifts under the sheets and touches his hip, where Pears had held him last night. He touches his neck, just below his ear, where Pears’ mouth had been so close his lips had maybe brushed against it. He runs a hand across the front of his shorts. He thinks about Pears’ quick, rough breathing, and his lip caught between his teeth. 

Tyler shifts again. 

Pears hadn’t said much after, just gone to his bedroom and closed the door behind him, as if it was any other night, as if he hadn’t just let Tyler get him off, and then made Tyler come, up against the kitchen counter, and breathing loud in Tyler’s ear. 

Tyler has no idea what any of it means. 

Except, it’s easy to bring himself off thinking about it – thinking about Pears’ standing there with his pants undone, and his eyes on Tyler, and his hands on Tyler, and how it had felt so, so good to be touched. Tyler jerks off thinking the feel of his hands, and how his hips had moved under Tyler’s hands, like Pears had wanted Tyler to touch him just as much as Tyler wanted to touch. 

Tyler wants to touch every inch of him. Tyler wants to put his mouth on him, wants to taste him, wants to know what his mouth would feel like. Tyler wants the weight of his body – 

Tyler comes, and the urgency of some of that need fades, and other thoughts start to edge in. 

Maybe Tyler’s going to get yelled at this morning. Maybe Tyler’s going to get called a faggot. 

Tyler scowls and cleans himself up, and heads down. There’s no sense in delaying the inevitable. 

Downstairs, Pears’ door is still closed. Tyler makes coffee. He stares at the counter, at the exact spot where they had pressed against each other. 

If Pears is going to be angry, if the events of last night are just going to set off another round of Pears hating him then it’s – then that’s not worth it. No matter how good it felt to be touched. 

Fuck, it felt good to be touched. 

Tyler listens to the sound of the kettle. 

Tyler has no idea how this morning’s going to go. 

Pears’ door opens, and Tyler looks up at the sound. Pears comes out still pulling a t-shirt on, looking soft and unkempt in a way that makes the inside of Tyler’s chest go fluttery and unsettled. 

He shuffles into the kitchen and stops in front of Tyler. 

Tyler feels the slow creep of blood rising in his face. He looks down, and when he looks back up, Pears is watching him, something focused in the way his eyes are moving over Tyler’s face. 

And – Tyler’s thoughts pause, because Pears is blushing, too. The sun is coming in through the window and picking out all the gold highlights in his hair, and there’s color in his cheeks. He looks warm. Everything else feels worlds away – Quick, their lost friends, the distant war that lights the sky. The morning feels clean, and new and perfect, like landscape fresh-washed after rain, and Tyler’s chest feels full, and all he can think is that he’s so lucky to have Pears with him, and he can’t not smile. “Good morning,” Tyler says. 

Pears smiles back at him, that fluttering, crooked grin. The one that no one else gets to see. He comes closer, stands with his shoulder brushing Tyler’s shoulder and his hip bumping up against Tyler’s hip. He touches Tyler’s face, very, very soft. “Morning.” 

 

 

Despite their best intentions, work on the trench slows considerably. 

They come together in the mornings, hands on each other in the kitchen, hungrier for touch than food, and then they linger over coffee in the afterglow, Tyler tracing patterns into the skin of Pears’ hip and Pears closing his eyes and staying very close to Tyler’s side. In the evenings, Pears presses against him on the couch, their breath growing quick, and their hips rocking together, and the gold-backed magazines relegated to a dusty, neglected spot on the floor. 

During they days, they do make progress – lifting and moving stones, clearing weeds. The bare earth grows before them like a reverse garden. But Pears will brush against him, or look at him – not quite in the eye, but maybe at Tyler’s mouth, or Tyler’s body, and Tyler will go hot all over in a way that has nothing to do with the sun. 

Pears doesn’t say anything – he’s so quiet – but when Tyler reaches for him, he comes in close. He puts his hands under Tyler’s clothes and slides them along his skin. And he lets Tyler strip him, until they’re both naked in the tall grass, under the sky and the sun, with no one but the birds and humming insects to see them. 

He unfolds under Tyler’s touch, stretches out under Tyler’s hands, body going loose and fluid. It thaws something in Tyler, slakes some long-held thirst to touch and be touched. He immerses himself in learning Pears’ body. Naked flesh is familiar, but it’s all changed and charged by intent. He learns the texture of his coarse, wiry hair, and the taste of dewy, slick parts of him, and the feel of Pears’ fingers flexing rhythmically against his scalp. 

Rolling in the grass, he tastes like sweat and crushed clover, like sunlight and cedar. 

And Pears wants him – wants to touch to him. Pears attends to Tyler’s body very closely. Not like Tyler’s something delicate, but like Tyler’s something that deserves careful, honed attention. Something which demands concentration. Tyler learns how much he can feel from places he didn’t expect to: Pears’ nails up the back of his thighs, his tongue on the inside of Tyler’s wrist, his teeth against the nape of Tyler’s neck all leave him gasping and trembling, until he can’t stop moving and he cries out loud enough for the birds to pause in their chatter. 

Pears rests his forehead against Tyler’s chest. Tyler holds him close, even though they’re sweaty, and sticky. He curls an arm around Pears, and when he looks down, he can see the top of his head and a sliver of face, and the long line of his shoulders: one of the new, oblique angles from which he knows Pears is beautiful. 

They clean up inside, not enough daylight left after for it to be worth it to go back to work. Tyler feels drowsy all through dinner. And after they spend a long time on the couch, Pears’ face close to his, his mouth hovering so close to Tyler’s. There’s a moment of hesitation, of hanging, of being at once in motion and yet still, like a throw ball at the apex of its flight. Tyler puts his hand on Pears’ jaw and draws him in that last inch, and then Pears’ mouth is against his, and Tyler learns the feel of his tongue and the press of his lips and the ridges of his teeth, and what it feels like when that feeling of craziness – that particular way that being lonely makes you crazy – starts to break up, and melt away. 

He wants to hold Pears this close to him always. 

Pears pulls back, and when Tyler’s mouth tries to chase, he catches Tyler’s face and holds it very gently. “I’m going to fall asleep,” he says. “We need to go to bed.” 

Tyler wants to say: come up with me. Come stay the night sleeping next to me. But he knows what the answer would be, even without asking. Just like he knows Pears isn’t going to ask him back into his room. 

Pears squeezes his hand before he gets up, but he still closes the door behind him. 

 

 

When they touch each other – Tyler doesn’t know what to call it, even in his own head, and he doesn’t call it anything out loud, because he and Pears don’t talk about it – Pears is so, so quiet. Even when he’s shaking, shivering under Tyler’s hands, his throat works, and his lips open, but there’s no sound. So you have to pay really close attention, to get what he’s trying to say. And this – Pears naked in front of him – Tyler figures, is how he will get to know Pears. This is how Tyler will learn him, not just his body as it is now, but his past. 

When he’s so quiet through his pleasure, Tyler thinks: a lifetime of shared rooms, of dormitories and bunks. And when he’s quick and rough, and Tyler thinks: always in a hurry, always in danger of being interrupted. 

Sometimes it’s nice, like how Pears gets this smug, pleased look when Tyler groans and pleads, when Pears’ hands on his skin make him grip the countertops or the arm of chair, and Tyler will think – when he can think at all – how much Pears likes to do a good job. 

But sometimes it’s darker. Sometimes Pears pushes him sharply away – when Tyler’s weight pins him. Or when Tyler startles him. He shoves Tyler back and puts space between them, breathing hard. In these moments, Tyler has learned to wait and be still, and Pears will come back to him, will pull him close again, even if there are still shadows in his eyes. But what exactly these particular moments say, Tyler doesn’t know. 

Sometimes, Tyler laces their fingers together, and he thinks about them bound together when Pears’ hand squeezes down hard on his. Sometimes, Tyler puts his mouth to some random spot – Pears’ shoulder or the inside of his knee – and Tyler thinks about how he wants to know every inch of skin. Sometimes, Pears sucks on his fingers, on his nipple, and Tyler thinks about all the places he wants his mouth. And sometimes, Pears grinds himself between Tyler’s legs, and Tyler thinks about getting fucked. 

This is not an uncomplicated thought. 

Because Tyler knows that wanting to be fucked is the worst possible sort of queerness. This is what guys tease about. Or worse than tease – threaten. Being fucked is about being _bent over_ , being humiliated, being owned. To want to be fucked is to want to be a woman, or something less than a woman, some half-thing, a failure a man. 

He knows what the guys back in Manch would say, if they knew what he wanted. Or worse, his parents – and Tyler cannot, cannot think about that. 

Tyler knows all that and Tyler’s body wants it anyway. The privacy of his loft becomes a place to fantasize about all the things he would let Pears do, and with his fingers make a careful, experimental proxy. He learns how to reach that sparking, needy place inside himself. He learns a little bit of oil, stolen from the kitchen and spirited upstairs, slicks the way and makes it easier. 

It’s not hard to imagine how heavy Pears would be, how hot, how much more it would be, and it becomes a single-minded longing. Tyler wants without regard for what it means, wants with an impulse that means it aches when Pears rocks against him, and aches even more when he pulls away, aches like a soreness in his muscles, the wanting like a long, low note, resonant and sustained. And each time Pears touches him the need gets greater and the words come closer to escaping Tyler’s throat. 

He breaks in the living room, with Pears between his legs, with them already naked and on the couch, and one of Tyler’s knees drawn up, pressed along Pears’ side and Pears’ hands on him and his mouth biting at Tyler’s throat. 

Tyler’s eyes are closed. “Fuck – you could – ” Pears is draped over him, body radiating heat in a way that makes Tyler heady. He grinds down against Tyler, and there’s a sweet, sharp ache that he can feel from the base of his spine all the way to the soles of his feet. Tyler’s head falls back, and the words come out with an escaped breath. “You could fuck me.” 

Pears freezes above him. 

Tyler hadn’t quite meant to say it out loud, hadn’t planned it. He waits. Pears never says anything while they’re touching each other. He never says _yes_ or _please_ or _like that_ , but he’s also never said no. 

Pears stares at him. Tyler’s managed to surprise him. Pears finally says, “You want that?” 

Tyler can feel the blood staining his cheeks, the heat of his flushed face. “Yeah.” He bites down on his lip to hold back the rest: _I think about this all the time, I fuck myself with my fingers and I think about you, and I want to. I want._ “Yeah.” 

Pears’ lips shape words, but there’s no sound. He pulls back a little, shifting his weight off Tyler, and his arms come up, hovering for a moment before crossing in front of his chest. “I don’t – I don’t want it the other way around.” 

“I – ” Tyler shuffles into a seated position. He looks at Pears, with his arms wrapped around himself. The moment feels precarious. He’s too flushed to think clearly; he wishes he knew a better way to say this. “That’s okay – that’s not – ” He forces himself to stop and pause and think, even though the air still smells of arousal, and his pulse still thuds in his ears. The temptation to just forget it and pretend he never said anything is very strong. But he’s come this far, and he wants this. “I want you to fuck me.” He waits, and when the silence stretches, “Do you want to fuck me?” 

Pears looks sort of shaky, sort of glazed. He blinks very quick, and he seems to gather himself. “Okay.” And then his eyes get big. “You mean now?” 

“I mean.” Tyler shrugs. “We could?” 

Pears doesn’t move, and he looks so pale Tyler backtracks, “We don’t have to. We could just – ” 

“No, no – we can.” Pears takes a breath, and he looks at Tyler. “Here?” 

The couch, while comfortable, is maybe not the place best suited to this. “Upstairs? In my room?” 

“Okay.” Pears nods, almost reflexive. “Okay.” 

Tyler stands and grabs a towel from the bathroom, and Pears stares at it. 

“I have oil upstairs, but it’s – ” Tyler shrugs again, feeling shy. “Messy.” 

Pears keeps staring, white-rimmed. Nervous. “Right,” he says after a beat. He climbs up to Tyler’s loft, and Tyler follows him. 

Pears sits on the edge of Tyler’s bed. Naked. His hands rest on his knees. 

Tyler spreads the towel across the sheets. He pulls out the oil and sets it on the bedside table, Pears watching him the whole time. “To make things easier,” Tyler says. 

Pears looks away, and that’s – that’s unusual. That’s new. 

Tyler sits down next to him. The window’s open, and the breeze move the curtains, and it makes goosebumps stand up on Tyler’s skin. He can see them on Pears, too. 

Tyler leans over and kisses his shoulder. “Pears,” Tyler says. He pauses. “Tanner?” 

Tanner smiles at him – and that feels right. _Tanner_ is the careful, prickly, sarcastic person who bosses Tyler around. Tanner is the one with quick, flickering smiles who no one else gets to see. Tanner is the one who rests his feet in Tyler’s lap, and runs his hands over Tyler’s skin like he can’t touch him enough. Tanner is the one he’s going to let inside him. 

Tanner leans in and kisses him, right at the corner of his mouth. Right in the very place he first kissed Tyler, back in the woods. Back when Tyler barely knew him, and the idea of doing _this_ was impossible. 

Tyler lies down on the bed, stretches out on his stomach. He pillows his head in his arms. He closes his eyes. Every inch of his skin feels alive, shocked by the touch of the air. The whole of his world compressed to waiting for touch. He almost feels high, even though he’s not, and he can hear the deep seabed murmur and lap of blood in his veins, the breeze from the window moving over every hair. He is something naked and offered. He is waiting. 

Tanner strokes a hand down the length of Tyler’s back. Tyler shivers, and even when Tanner’s hand is gone, the path he traced is alight. 

The bed dips. Tanner’s hand returns. He strokes Tyler’s shoulders, his ass, down the back of his thigh. So light it almost tickles. Tyler spreads his legs farther apart. 

Tanner rests a hand at the small of Tyler’s back. Tyler can hear him breathing, wet and shallow and quick. “I’m not going to change my mind,” he says. “About not wanting to, you know, get – ” 

“That’s okay.” A weird calm has settled over Tyler, as though he’s come full circle, all the way from nervous to terrified and out the other side. He opens his eyes and turns his face to smile at Tanner. “Really. I want it like this.” 

Tanner smiles back, a little cautious. 

Tyler nods up towards the bedside table. “Use the oil.” 

“Okay.” The bed dips again as he reaches for it. “Do you want this on me? Or on – you?” 

“I don’t know.” Tyler closes his eyes again. “Both, I guess?” 

There’s a pause before Tanner touches him. His fingers are cool and slick, his touch of the oil to Tyler’s skin is brief, hurried. 

Tyler listens to him breathe. He listens to the sound of Tanner touching himself, he keeps one hand on Tyler while he does, rubbing circles in Tyler’s skin. 

The bed creaks when he shifts above Tyler. “Ty?” His voice is unsteady. “Just – say something if – if it’s not okay?” 

Tyler swallows. He can hardly breathe, but he nods. 

It hurts. 

It hurts a lot. Enough for Tyler’s whole body to tense up and try to pull away – except there’s nowhere to go, pinned between the mattress and Tanner’s weight. Tyler gasps a little, eyes squeezing shut, trying to breathe, trying not to cry out. He asked for this. He wanted this. Maybe this is what he’s supposed to feel. 

Tanner slides into him, slow, inexorable. 

Tyler bites the back of his hand, disoriented by the pain. It feels like a betrayal, that his body wanted this so much, but it hurts, it – 

“Oh, fuck.” Tanner sounds like he can barely get the words out. His voice thick and trembling. “Are you okay? I’ll stop if you want, but – fuck, Ty. It feels so, so good.” 

His mouth is right up against the nape of Tyler’s neck. Tyler can feel the scrape of his teeth, Pears’ lips against his skin. His hands clutch and squeeze Tyler’s shoulder, his hip. 

Tyler breathes. 

He makes himself still, and he concentrates on the thick catch of Tanner’s breathing above him. The way he can feel Tanner all around him. The way he can feel Tanner trembling. 

If hockey’s taught Tyler anything, it’s that you can breathe through almost any pain. Tyler exhales a long breath. He breathes in and holds it. And blows it out through pursed lips. His body eases. Relaxes. 

Tanner slides in further, and he rubs his face into Tyler. He bites at Tyler’s shoulder, murmuring into Tyler’s skin. “Fuck. Ty,” he says. He mouths it into the back of Tyler’s neck. “Oh, fuck.” 

Under the burn there’s a spark of something, that ache reawakened, and Tyler chases that, trying to shift under Tanner. 

“Tell me you’re okay. Tyler, tell me you’re okay – ” There’s a thready, anxious edge to Tanner’s voice. 

They’re so tight, they’re so close, and he can feel Tanner’s heart beating, can feel his chest expand with each breath. Can hear every half-choked groan and stuttered sigh. 

“I’m okay.” Maybe. Mostly. Tyler shifts his weight again, and he gets a hand back, reaching for any part of Tanner he can find. Tanner catches his seeking hand, tangles his fingers with Tyler’s. 

Tyler shifts again, and he finally finds the angle he’s looking for. He groans into the pillow. He needs his hand back from Tanner to balance and when he finally gets just exactly where he wants to be, Tanner moans, and he’s making these small noises of need, and he doesn’t sound like himself, he doesn’t sound like anything Tyler’s ever heard, and it’s all new and perfect and theirs, just theirs and no one else’s. And Tyler’s body feels wholly undiscovered and Tanner feels like his in a way that he’s never been anyone else’s. And Tyler is his. 

Tyler lets his head fall forward, and he moves, chasing that sweet ache and the way it makes him shiver. And when he finds it, he rocks up into it, moaning. 

“Oh, fuck.” Tanner’s moving over him. His fingers rake down Tyler’s sides; he holds his hips. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck – you like this.” 

Tanner sounds amazed, and shame creeps back into the edges of Tyler’s thoughts, enough to snap that thread of pleasure, to feel strange in his own body again. He asked for this, and what does that mean – what exactly does that make him – 

Tanner groans, fingers tightening again on Tyler’s hips. “Please let me, please let me – ” 

Tyler’s not entirely sure what he means, but it hardly matters. Tyler would let him do anything. “Yeah, what – ” 

Tanner starts moving faster. Rougher, and it hurts again. Tyler bites down on his hand again. Tanner’s rhythm stutters and jerks. He groans, face pressed hard into Tyler. His hips snap and then still. And then his full weight is on Tyler, heavy over him, and he gasps open-mouthed against Tyler’s skin. 

They stay like that, motionless for a beat, until Tyler shifts underneath him. 

Tanner rolls off him. 

Tyler curls onto his side, his back to Tanner. His body feels strange – sore and sticky and throbbing lightly – but he feels disconnected from all of it. 

Tanner touches his shoulder, runs his ringers through Tyler’s hair. “Are you okay?” 

Tyler curls a little tighter. He feels slick between his legs, and raw all over. He keeps his eyes closed. 

“Do you want me to – ” Tanner strokes Tyler’s hip, reaches a little further to stroke his fingers down the length of Tyler’ cock. 

“No.” Tyler’s gone soft. He feels shocky and strange. He doesn’t feel like getting off. 

Tanner pauses, his voice careful, “Ty, are you – ” 

Tyler turns and works himself up against Tanner’s chest. He wants contact. He wants to press himself against something until he feels like he’s back in his own body. He wants that feeling of connection back, the one that made all this okay. He tucks his face into Tanner’s shoulder. “I’m okay,” he says again, trying to reassure one of them. Maybe both of them. “Can we stay like this a minute? Please?” 

Tanner’s arms curl around him, slow, holding him in place. Tyler closes his eyes. He shivers, and Tanner’s hold gets a little tighter. Tyler can feel his chin resting light on the top of Tyler’s head, his fingertips at the nape of Tyler’s neck. 

Tyler wants his head to quiet down. He winds his arms further around Tanner. He can feel Tanner stroking the back of his head. And it’s good. This is good. This is nice. He lifts his head. 

Tanner smiles at him, cautious, and Tyler leans up to kiss him. 

Tanner touches his face. He slips out from underneath Tyler. “I’ll help you clean up,” he says. 

Tyler would rather he just stay, but Tanner’s hands are already moving over Tyler with careful, polite care, and Tyler lets him. 

“You’re not bleeding or anything,” Tanner says. 

“Oh.” Tyler feels a bit shocky again. “Good.” 

Tanner sits on the edge of the bed, and pushes Tyler’s hair away from his face, and strokes his arm, and lets Tyler catch his hand in his. 

But then he stands, pulling away even as Tyler starts to say, “You could – ” 

“Goodnight, Ty,” he says, kind but firm. Some part of him still opaque, unknowable. Tyler wants to hold onto him, because it hurts a little to be left like this. It hurts a little to see him go. 

He watches Pears climb downstairs. 

 

 

Time goes hazy. They’re so distracted they almost get caught – even though the string of Xs on their calendar says today is a day they’ll get someone in from Hamden, it still manages to take them by surprise. Tanner is lying against Tyler’s side on the couch, with a cup of coffee on the table in front of them, and Tyler is carding aimless fingers through his hair, and neither one of them has bothered to put on pants, when they hear the truck outside. 

Tanner jumps first, and Tyler is up the ladder and dressed in record time. He throws his laundry down from the loft, and by the time he’s climbed down, Tanner is already stuffing it into the sack. 

“Get the – ” Tanner calls. 

“Yeah.” Tyler grabs the empty grocery crate from the kitchen, flipping it upside down to discard the last of the potatoes they hadn’t quite gotten through, and these go rolling off across the counter. He’ll find them later. 

Tanner has the laundry, and just before they head for the door, he catches Tyler by the arm and pulls his shirt collar straight, and stands back to look at him. 

Tyler grins. 

Tanner rolls his eyes, but by the time Bill is in the drive, they’re mostly together and mostly don’t look like they spent half the morning naked. 

Bill just nods at them, as taciturn as ever. As always, he doesn’t take more than a perfunctory glance at their progress on the trench. Tyler hides a scowl as he climbs into the truck. It might help Quick’s case if Bill could at least pretend to give a shit. 

Tyler twists around in his seat to look at Tanner, but Tanner’s gaze is fixed out the truck’s window. Tyler thinks he can see a hint of a flush still marking his cheeks. 

Out the window, the trees are starting to show highlights of red and gold, some of the maples edging toward a deep, vibrant purple. It rained three days this week. Summer is ending. Tyler frowns and sits up a little straighter, because today marks their fourth trip into Hamden. He’s pissed at himself for not realizing it until now – for letting time slip away like that – this is the end of their fourth week. The end of the month, and the end of the time they promised Jonathan Quick. 

 

 

Tanner is edgy in Hamden, Tyler can tell – there’s a tightness at the corners of his eyes, even as he smiles at Jackie. There’s a hesitation in his step. They’re helping Jackie prepare lunch, standing in the kitchen with a bunch of people whose names Tanner seems to know, but Tyler’s never bothered to learn. Tyler is on alert, watching for some sign of Jon Quick’s presence. He’s shelling peas when he finally hears him. From the front room, he can hear the heavy footsteps of a group of men, and mixed in with their voices is Jon Quick’s voice, directing traffic. 

Tyler sets the bowl he’s working over aside. He touches Tanner’s arm. “I’ll be right back.” 

Tanner looks at him and frowns, and then he hears Quick’s voice, and he looks upset. He takes a breath, and Tyler can see his own name forming on the tip of Tanner’s tongue. Tanner bites it back just in time. “What – ” 

“Five minutes,” Tyler says. “I swear.” He flashes an apologetic smile. 

Tanner might be pissed, but Quick can be hard to catch, and Tyler needs to talk to him. 

Jon Quick is hardly ever alone, nearly always surrounded by a coterie of men, some with guns, generally two or three of them trying to talk to him at once. He’s down the hall, in his office, when Tyler approaches. The door is open. 

Quick’s eyes flick over to him when Tyler appears in the doorway, and then back to Bill, who he’s talking to. Quick says, “You think you’ll be able to get him?” 

Tyler edges into the room, ignoring the look Bill throws at him. Bill turns his attention back to Quick. “Shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“How long?” 

Bill shrugs. “Depends. Couple days if we’re lucky. A week on the outside.” He’s holding some papers, only one of which Tyler can see. A map. 

Quick drums his fingers across the desk. “I guess that’ll have to be good enough. Thank you.” 

Bill nods goodbye to Quick, and tips his head at Tyler on his way out. 

“Jordan.” Quick says, rolling the name around his mouth like he always does. “What’s up?” He has dark circles under his eyes, but he’s smiling. He looks relieved. 

Tyler drops into one of the chairs across from him. “Good news?” 

Quick’s mouth tips up, a lopsided grin. “Finally got in touch with an old friend, and he’s going to be able to pay a visit.” 

Like everything Quick says, it could be mean nothing. It could mean everything. Tyler smiles, cautious. “That’s good.” 

“Yeah.” Quick sounds distracted, but like he means it. “Yeah, it is.” 

Tyler hesitates. He makes himself keep his hands still at his sides, even though he’s nervous, and they’d like to twist. He’d like this to be calmer than last time. He clears his throat. “Today makes four weeks since we got here.” Four weeks of doing nothing. Four weeks and Tyler still doesn’t know anything more about what’s happening outside their little haven, and isn’t any closer to getting in touch with Dean, or finding his parents. 

Quick sits back in his chair. He looks at Tyler, steady. He doesn’t lose his grin. “Does it?” 

Tyler pushes down his nerves. “Yeah, it does. That’s what we said we’ve give you.” 

Quick’s grin gets just a little wider. “I suppose you’re right.” 

The way Jon is grinning is irritating. He’s grinning because Tyler’s got no leverage. He’s got no bargaining chips, and Quick knows it. Quick’s gaze is sharp on him, like he can see right through Tyler, like he somehow knows everything about him, and everything he’s lying about, and Tyler has to remind himself that he doesn’t. That he can’t. He holds Quick’s gaze. The skin on the back of his neck crawls, but he doesn’t let himself shift. He waits. 

Quick leans forward and plants his elbows on the desk. “I don’t have a ride for you yet. But I will. Soon.” 

“How soon?” 

Quick just smiles again. “That depends on a lot of things.” 

Tyler looks at that smirk and he can feel himself flush full of anger like a hot flood. He’s furious at the universe, spinning out of his control, at the lies, at all the things he doesn’t know. He can’t protect Tanner. He can’t protect himself – he doesn’t know anything – and Jon Quick _does_ – and he doesn’t even give a shit enough to say. “Why are we even here? Why do you have us doing _nothing_? And why aren’t you telling us anything? I know you’re talking to Dean Lombardi – ” 

Quick’s eyes narrow. “Oh, you know that, do you?” 

“Yeah.” Tyler’s voice is starting to rise. “I know about the phones. I know you played on his team. I can figure out that you work for him, I’m not an idiot – ” 

Quick’s face goes dark. “You little prick. You think you know so much. Well, what is it you think I’m not telling you?” 

Tyler stops. He can feel himself trembling. 

“Go on,” Quick says. “Ask something.” 

Tyler straightens. “Why are we here? Why are we building a trench in the middle of nowhere when you’re sending everybody else north to fight?” 

“Like I told you last week, you’re building that trench because I need that trench built. And you here because here is where I need you.” 

Tyler shakes his head and bites his tongue, because he still doesn’t believe it. “I don’t – ” 

Quick leans back in his chair and cuts him off. “Ah, no. My turn. Why do you really want to go to the Black?” 

Tyler hesitates. Jon Quick’s gaze is sharp, focused tight on Tyler’s face. Tyler looks down at his hands, trying to think how much truth is too much. The line from the Black to Dean to his parents to who Tyler really is, is too fraught. So Tyler lies. He swallows. He starts slow, his words picking up speed as he goes. “After the end of the season, our team split up. Some guys got called up to the Black. Some guys went back to Manchester. Some of us stayed at the compound. And, now – ” Tyler stops again and takes a breath. “The ones who stayed are gone. And the ones in Manchester are gone. And some of the guys, I don’t know where they went. But I know some of them are in the Black. I know some of my team is in the Black.” Tyler falls silent. 

“You want to go find your black aces.” 

Tyler nods without looking up, and suddenly he _does_ want to see them. He does miss them. Even if Tyler never quite fit in Manchester, they’re familiar. They’re family, in their own way. He does need to find them. It’s hard to get their names out. “Muzz. And Joner. Nolly. Kinger.” He shrugs. “They’re the only ones I have any idea how to find.” 

Quick sighs. And when Tyler glances up, he’s resting his face in his hand, fingers rubbing his brow, as if chasing a headache. 

“Please, I just – ” There’s no way to explain. There’s no way to get Quick to understand that everyone’s gone. That it’s just him and Tanner, and they’re alone, and Tyler needs to know. If there is anything to know – about his parents or his team, about anyone. “Do you know if they’re okay?” 

Quick lets his hand fall away and looks up at him. When he speaks, his voice is very dry. “We lost the phone network about a week after the Cup Final. Union killed the satellite – killed the data system – killed everything. We get word through here and there, but…” He shakes his head. “Communication’s been hard.” He clears his throat. “When I left, though, all your boys were alive and well in SoCal.” 

It’s just after noon, and the sun is still high, but Quick’s shade is drawn. The room is dim, and Jon Quick’s face seems half-hidden. Hard to read. But it doesn’t sound like he’s just feeding Tyler another platitude. 

Quick slides his hands across the surface of the desk, smoothing invisible papers. “Let’s see – when I left, Muzz was running errands for Greener, which means I can tell you fuck all about what he’s doing. But Greener looks after his people. Nolan and King were holding down the fort in L.A. and Jonesy? Jonesy was starting to show a pretty frightening aptitude for creation of incendiary devices, so I’m sure he’s being put to good use.” 

The lump in Tyler’s throat makes it too hard to speak. Because it sounds like it could be true, and if it is – 

Quick sighs. “You know, it’s nice to be able to give somebody good news for once.” He pauses. “My turn again. How do you know Lombardi?” 

Tyler freezes. His chest feels very tight. He manages to swallow. “From Manchester.” From Manchester and from Scarborough and from his birthdays and a thousand dinners and a thousand pictures. Pictures of Tyler held in his arms and Tyler between Dean and his father. Tyler and Dean playing with mini-sticks. Dean holding his hands when he took his first steps in skates. “From the Monarchs.” 

Quick meets his gaze, and holds it. And it’s right there in his eyes that he knows Tyler lying. Tyler is as certain of it as he’s ever been of anything. But Quick doesn’t call him on it. He just sinks back in his chair. He thumbs through his desk drawer and pulls out rolling papers. “I ever tell you how I met Dean Lombardi?” He glances up to check Tyler’s response. 

Tyler shakes his head no. 

Quick chuckles, mostly to himself. “I was in White Plains – well, I was in this shithole outside White Plains, but close enough. Trying to buy guns.” Quick shrugs, philosophical. He rolls a cigarette and licks the paper to seal it shut. “Brownie – Dustin Brown – was on his way back from Manhattan. We both got picked up in a street sweep. This was like, ’04. We got put in the same holding cell. He had a black eye and a fat lip, and he was already down a couple teeth. He looked at me and said, ‘Hey kid, I’m busting out of here, you wanna come?’” 

Quick laughs. “I didn’t know him from Adam. I thought he was full of shit. I thought, who the fuck says that? Who actually says ‘busting out’?” Quick lights the cigarette and his head tips, thoughtful. “Then, of course, he actually did it. We worked together a lot after that, and then a year or so later, he says, ‘You remember when I was in New York? I was meeting up with this guy, Dean Lombardi.’ He said, ‘He’s the real deal, Quickie. He’s going to do something about all this shit. I’m gonna go work for him, and you should, too.’” 

Quick blows out a long plume of smoke. “So I did. And we did a lot of good things. Some shitty things, but a lot of good things. Came a lot closer to real change than Brownie and I had ever managed on our own – although you probably know how that ended. Working with Dean got me some serious jail time.” Quick laughs, like it’s funny. “I probably should have learned my lesson then.” 

He ashes the cigarette. “Of course, I didn’t. And the next thing you know, I’m in California – ” 

“Wait,” Tyler cuts him off. This is news. “You worked with Dean before you were arrested? When he was still with the Orange?” 

Quick frowns at him, that sharp look coming back. “What’s it to you?” 

Tyler stumbles. “Nothing, I guess.” 

“I worked with him for years – and nearly all of it side by side with Brownie. Every fucking day for seven fucking years. And whaddya know – seven years later we got our revolution.” 

He spreads his hands wide. “And isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t all this just great?” 

Tyler doesn’t know what to say. 

Quick laughs. “Yeah. Exactly. When we were planning this thing, we thought the Union would come down hard on the west. We thought most of the fighting the first year was gonna happen out there. And, a lot of what we thought would happen has happened. But no one expected the east coast to implode like it did. No one expected the 500 different fucking armed factions we seem to have out here. No one saw that coming.” Quick’s mouth thins to a line. “So Dean, he says to me, ‘Jon, you gotta go east. You gotta hold shit together for me on the east coast.” 

Quick’s smile now is twisted, bitter. “So here I am.” He laughs again, but there’s no warmth in it, and it trails off, ragged. “Dustin Brown was my very best friend, and I left California with his body still barely cold, with his wife still sobbing. And I’m out here, cut off, with a handful of guys, with less than half the supplies I need, and I’m supposed to train infants to go to war.” 

He pauses. The smoke from his cigarette drifts upward, makes an odd, hazy halo. “Anyway. That’s how I met Lombardi. And that’s what happened after I met Lombardi. And that’s all I know about what’s happening on the west coast.” His gaze is so cold, and so sharp on Tyler’s face that Tyler has to look away. 

“This place though,” Quick continues. “This place is goddamn tinderbox. And it’s gonna get worse before it gets better.” He raps his knuckles against the desk and Tyler, startled, looks up. 

Quick has that narrow-eyed, no bullshit gaze again. He tips his head towards the door. “You better run,” he says. “You’re gonna miss your ride. I promise I’ll be in touch.” 

 

 

Tanner’s in full public mode when Tyler gets back. He hardly says a word to Tyler, making tight-lipped, polite conversation with strangers instead, and he stays quiet on the ride back to their cabin. Eyes fixed out the window. 

The truck drops them off. Tanner grabs the crate of groceries and walks towards the cabin without a word. It sets Tyler on edge, and the air in the cabin crackles, makes something go knotted in his chest. 

Tyler stands behind him in the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. “What? Why are you pissed?” 

Tanner levels a glare at him. “You went to talk to Quick?” 

Tyler shrugs. “So?” 

“Fuck you.” Tanner’s words come out low and cold. 

“The fuck is wrong with you – ” The volume of Tyler’s voice inches up with each word. 

Tanner’s been roughly shoving the groceries home, but now he stops. Tyler can see his hands tight on the edge of the counter, and the line of his shoulders is rigid. He turns around to look at Tyler. “You just going to make all the decisions for both of us? You didn’t think maybe I wanted to be there?” 

Tyler hadn’t thought about that at all, and it must show on his face, because Tanner rolls his eyes. He looks at Tyler and the kitchen and the half-unloaded groceries and gives a tight shake of his head. “Fuck this.” He walks past Tyler, out of the kitchen. 

Tyler hears the front door of the cabin slam. 

He has a moment of panic – that Tanner’s going to just take off. Maybe he’s supposed to chase after him, although Tanner looked very much like he wanted to get away from Tyler. Tyler darts to the front room, and through the window he watches Tanner cross the yard and drop down to sit in the grass, hands resting on his knees. Tyler’s panic subsides, not leaving – but angry. A creeping feeling of guilt replaces the panic. 

Maybe he should go out there and apologize. 

Tanner’s facing away from the cabin. 

Maybe he should wait. 

Tyler finishes putting the groceries away, feeling slightly sick. He makes tea because it’s something to with his hands. He checks on Tanner from the window. Tanner hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting out in the tall grass, on the far side of their ditch, arms wrapped around his knees and looking west. 

Tyler should definitely wait. 

Tanner comes back inside just before full dark settles. He closes the door carefully behind him, turns, and his gaze lands on Tyler. 

Tyler hovers near the kitchen doorway. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think.” 

Tanner’s jaw works back and forth a moment. He nods without meeting Tyler’s eyes, looking just past him. “What did Quick say?” 

Tyler looks down at the mug in his hands. “He doesn’t have a ride for us yet. But he said soon.” 

Tanner nods again. He still looks like Tyler doesn’t have his full attention. He rubs an absent hand across the back of his neck. But then he shrugs and his arms drop to his sides and then he looks right at Tyler, meets his eyes. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave?” 

That’s not the question Tyler was expecting. “What do you mean?” 

Tanner laughs, short and unhappy. “You hound Quick every chance you get. You’re counting the days – ” He shakes his head, frustration written in the lines of his body and in the white around his mouth. He keeps looking at Tyler, looking at him like Tyler’s supposed to say something. “Why?” 

Both of them are wound so tight it feels like the air itself is charged. Tyler wants to ease the tight line of Tanner’s shoulders. Wants to hold his face. Wants him close. But if he steps any nearer, it feels like they’ll fly apart, like magnets, like the pieces of a dropped plate mid-shatter. 

Tyler’ breathing hard, even though they’re just standing there. A weight on his chest. 

Tanner’s still looking at him. “Ty,” he says, and his voice cracks. 

“There are things happening out there – important things. We can’t just stay here. I can’t just – ” Tyler stops. Tanner’s face is white, all color gone. Outside, the night is dark and still, the windows throw back only reflections of the lit room, and the quiet stretches on and on, and inside the chatter of Tyler’s heartbeat speeds. Everything wound so fucking tight, it could snap at any second. “I don’t – it’s not – ” Tyler reaches for him. 

Tanner pulls him in. Tyler looks at his hand in Tanner’s hand, fingers sewn together. Tyler steps into him, as close as he can to him – this whole other person. He puts a hand to Tanner’s face. “Is that what – it’s not to get away from this. I need this. I need you – ” 

Tanner kisses him – a hard press of lips and teeth. His hands start moving very fast and very rough, pulling Tyler’s shirt free of his pants. So quick Tyler’s almost knocked off balance. Tanner’s skin is hot where it touches his, and his nails dig into Tyler’s hips. It’s so much and so fast, it’s impossible to think of anything else. 

Tyler keeps trying to slow him down. Moves Tanner’s hands back to his waist, and he won’t let Tanner rub up against him. Tanner’s teeth graze his skin. And he’s urging Tyler backwards, back towards the ladder and the loft and the bed they fuck in. 

Tyler goes. 

Tanner keeps up a steady press, moving him back onto the bed, and moving over him. His mouth is open and red and he’s breathing like he’s mid-race, mid-shift. The pull towards him is enormous, like gravity, like turning to his face to the sun, and it’s so much – to need him and want him and to not understand him – to have this whole other human being, and to place so much of your happiness in their hands – 

“Please,” Tyler says, he’s trying to get his hands up, trying to slow Tanner down, even as he’s stripping his clothes off. “Come on, please – slow down – ” 

Tanner groans. “I don’t know what you want.” Tanner’s mouth is right up against his skin, right under his jaw. “I don’t know what you want from me.” 

Tyler thinks: _I want a world where, every day I wake up next to you and it’s as normal as it is for the eastern horizon to birth the sun. And constant as it is for it to sink into the west. I want you next to me and in front of me, always. And a thousand other impossible things_ . 

“Slow,” Tyler says. “I want you to slow down.” His hands are flat against Tanner’s chest. He reaches up to touch Tanner’s face instead, to touch his temple and his jaw and his mouth, still parted and waiting. “I want you to hold me. I want you to kiss me.” 

Tanner hovers over him. His breath is Tyler’s breath. He dips the last inch to kiss Tyler. Tyler gets his arms around him and holds him, the two of them stretched and naked, side-by-side in Tyler’s bed. Tanner winds his arms around Tyler, until they can’t get any closer, until their chests rise and fall to the same beat, and he kisses Tyler, soft and unrushed, until Tyler’s mouth feels swollen, lips chapped and raw. 

Tyler moves his legs apart. He can feel Tanner’s breathing change. He rocks his hips against Tyler. 

“Just – ” Tyler pulls away, just far enough to grab the oil from the nightstand and press it into Tanner’s hand. “Just – slow. Please.” 

Tanner’s hands on him are careful, light. 

“I can – it’ll be easier if I – ” Tyler can feel himself blushing. He reaches a hand down between his legs, starts to tease himself open. 

He’s done this before, but never with Tanner right there. Never with Tanner’s watching him, lips parted. Tyler’s on his back; they’re face to face, and Tyler has to look away. He turns his head, embarrassed. It’s easier with his eyes closed, easier for that familiar pleasure to stir. 

Tanner pours more oil over him, over his fingers, right where they’re sliding into his body, and things get slicker. Tyler’s breath comes faster, he moves faster. Tanner starts touching him – the inside of his thighs, his balls, his dick – Tyler moans, eyes still closed. He can hear Tanner shifting above him. “Can I? Are you – can I?” 

“Yeah.” Tyler’s skin is buzzing, hot and flushed. 

Tanner pulls Tyler’s hand away. 

Tyler lets him into his body. Tyler holds him close and Tanner drops his forehead and presses kisses so light into Tyler’s jaw and his neck and face, that it’s almost a ghost of a touch. 

“I want this,” Tyler says, and it feels like leaping off a building just to say it aloud. Like being cracked open right to the center to spill a kind of honesty he didn’t know he had. “I want this. I want you. I want you to stay with me. Stay with me.” He says it over and over again, while Tanner rocks against him. Between every gasp and torn rasp of breath. 

Tanner makes a small, choked noise, moving faster against him, and – it’s good. It feels good, good enough that Tyler lets his head loll back and cants his hips to meet Tanner, to get him deeper, and gets his hand on his dick. 

Tanner groans, broken, desperate. “Oh, god. You’re getting off on this – ” 

Tyler pants, because he is. He’s so close, he’s so close – 

Tanner moves faster, hissing little gasps. It’s good in a way that’s too brand new to compare to anything. It’s deep and unformed, shapeless in a way that feels all-encompassing. Tanner’s rhythm speeds again, then stutters. He comes in one hard, last press deep in Tyler. Tyler finishes in his own hand, with Tanner still inside him, and shuddering open-mouthed breaths against his skin. 

Tanner wraps his arms his arms around Tyler, keeps his face tucked into Tyler’s throat. And Tyler puts his hands over Tanner’s hands and holds him there, holds him close. “I want you here,” Tyler says, when they’re curled together. And he means here and now and always. “I’m not leaving this. I don’t want to leave this.” 

Tanner pushes up on one elbow. He traces Tyler’s hairline, and down around his eyes, and across his lips, and his chin and his cheeks. He rests his head on the pillow, right next to Tyler’s, and the rest of him is pressed so close Tyler can feel his pulse, still quick, thudding away under his skin. 

“Okay,” Tanner says. “Okay.” He leans in to kiss Tyler, skin flushed and warm, hair a mess. 

Tyler gets this deep curl of heat, right at his center. A burst of warmth so heady and all-consuming it’s almost startling. 

Tanner starts to sit up. 

“Stay,” Tyler says, one hand on Tanner’s arm. “You could stay the night here.” It comes out so raw, so rough, Tyler almost doesn’t recognize his own voice. 

Tanner stops moving. He looks at Tyler just long enough for Tyler to know he doesn’t want to. 

“I’ll dream,” he says. Very low and holding himself very still. “If I stay, I won’t sleep. I’ll dream. I don’t like sharing a bed.” There’s something hollow, almost guilty, layered in his tone. “I can’t.” He looks at Tyler. 

There’s something shadowed in his look, and Tyler thinks about the times Tanner has pushed him away, his startled fear – and he gets a terrible sort of wonder. This whole other human being, with an unknown future, and a past suddenly written all over his face. An expression that makes Tyler ache. “Dream about what?” 

Tanner’s breath comes a little faster. 

Tyler winds his fingers with Tanner’s. “I know it was bad – where you were before Manchester. I know it was hard. You can talk to me – ” 

Tanner pulls his hand away. “You don’t – ” He gasps out a pained laugh. “You don’t know anything. You have no idea.” 

He’s upset, sounds angry enough for Tyler to go still. 

“You’re so – ” Tanner’s hand cuts through the air and then falls. He shrugs, like he can’t find the word. 

“I’m sorry,” Tyler says. Not even entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, just that’s Tanner’ upset, that he’s hurting. “I didn’t mean to – If you don’t want to stay, that’s fine. I don’t want you to be upset.” 

Tanner smiles at him, tired and shaky at the edges. He reaches out to hold Tyler’s face. “I like that you don’t know. Sometimes, anyway.” 

Tyler doesn’t know what to say to that. 

He turns back towards Tyler, and lies back down with his face very close. “I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep, how’s that?” 

Gentle enough for Tyler to feel silly. “You don’t have to.” 

“I want to,” he says, and it’s half a plea. “I want to.” 

 

 

Tyler wakes alone, the spot where Tanner was when he fell asleep long cool. He looks in the mirror that morning and studies the face looking back. His skin is darker, from the sun, and splayed with freckles. His hair is longer and curls around his face. He wonders what his parents would say, if they could see him. He wonders what Quick thinks. He wonders what Tanner sees, when he looks at him. To himself, he looks older. Years older than the kid he was in Manchester. Decades older than he was in Scarborough. 

Downstairs, he starts coffee and looks outside at the wet leaves, thick on the ground. It rains every morning, now. And even if they still have the long, golden afternoons of an Indian summer, the signs of the season’s turn are all around them, red and orange catching like flames through the crowns of the trees. 

Tyler reaches out and rests a hand on the glass. He wonders how many days they have left here. And if it will be good to go, or if he’ll miss this place. What he’ll find out there, and what he won’t. Tyler’s chest is a tangle, too many fragments of himself still trying to find spaces, and all these new pieces of him mixed up with all these new pieces of Tanner. 

When Tanner emerges, he looks at Tyler from across the kitchen, hesitating and silent. And Tyler’s not sure what the right thing to say is, in this delicate, new thing of theirs. 

Except it’s just them. And there’s no one to see them. And maybe there’s no right thing or no wrong thing at all. When he holds out his hand, Tanner comes in very close and puts his arms around Tyler. They stand like that, with Tanner’s fingers stroking across his skin, and his forehead pressed to Tyler’s, and like this Tyler can pretend they’re the only people in the whole world, that this cabin is the sun of a universe that expands to the edge of the valley and ends there, with nothing else beyond. 

“How’d you sleep?” Tyler asks. 

“Okay. Fine.” He breathes against Tyler’s temple. “I sleep better here than I have – maybe ever.” He pauses. “I feel safe here.” He hasn’t stepped away from Tyler, his words are mumbled almost directly into Tyler’s skin. Too close to see. Too close to miss the nervous rise and fall of his chest. 

Tyler closes his eyes; he can feel the currents of last night’s argument stirring. “There are all kinds of things happening out there.” 

“I know.” 

“And I can’t give up on finding Dean. He could help me my find my parents.” The words ache to say. He tightens his fingers in Tanner’s shirt. 

“I _know_.” 

“And not just Dean. When I talked to Quick, he said he saw Joner and Nolly and the other aces last in June. That they were in the Black, and they were helping.” 

Tanner doesn’t say anything. 

Tyler holds onto him tight. “I can’t stay here. I can’t stay here and do nothing.” 

“I know.” Tanner shifts and presses his face hard into Tyler’s throat. He steps back. “Do you – come here for a second.” Tanner takes him by the hand and tugs him out of the kitchen. He leads Tyler to his bedroom, and Tyler pauses for a moment on the threshold. He hasn’t been in here since their first day in the cabin. 

Tanner takes him in. 

It’s not messy like Tyler expected – like Tanner’s bunk was back in Manchester, where you could hardly move past without knocking into something and causing a clatter. The blankets on the bed are unmade and askew but the floor is clear. There’s a line of objects on the windowsill, things he must have found outside: an abandoned snail shell, a velvety seed pod; an arrowhead and a bit of quartz. 

“Here, I – ” Tanner’s standing over by the desk. He gestures at it, and Tyler can see a corner of it has been set up almost like a display. Vey and Wealer’s hoodies, carefully folded to show the numbers. The Monarch’s patch rescued from their now-discarded track pants. A pair of purple flowers with gold centers, pressed and dried. And his hymnal, worn leather cover camouflaged and nestled on top of Vey’s hoodie. 

A tiny shrine, Tyler realizes. Tucked away and hidden. 

“I think about them every day,” Tanner says, each word coming out with its own emphasis, his voice thick. “I know we have to do something. I know we have to help.” 

Tyler takes a step towards the desk. He reaches out a hand and hesitates. “Can I?” 

“Yeah.” Tanner’s gaze is heavy and unblinking, and he doesn’t look away. As long as Tyler’s looking at him, he doesn’t look away. 

Tyler turns his gaze on the desk. He picks up the Monarchs patch. The pants that this was a part of were shredded for rags weeks ago. He had no idea Tanner kept this. He had no idea Tanner would think twice about throwing it away – although maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. He remembers Tanner on their flight through the woods, Tanner was the one who worried about their friends. Tanner was the one who looked back. 

Tyler touches the path, and he’s flush with the memory of being in the dorms, every day in Manch – with dozens of voices laughing and talking around him, and that last time, in that horrible silence, bent over Wealer’s trunk. And suddenly he’s so full up of love for Tanner and his lost team – every one of them – that everything’s a blur in front of him. _You weren’t even happy there,_ his mind reminds him, but it hardly matters. They were his, and for the longest time – they were home. He sets it back, careful, reverent. 

He trails his fingers across Vey’s hoodie and Wealer’s hoodie. They’re gone. Tyler sees the gates of the compound explode into flames, and the burnt pieces of trees – that weren’t trees at all. If he closes his eyes, he can see their bodies, blown backwards, as if they had weighed nothing at all, as if they were leaves in a summer storm, and how they had landed, crumpled, unnatural and broken on the ground. 

Not trees, never trees, although it was easier to pretend. His friends. Gone. 

And even if somewhere, he always knew, this clarity has razor edges. It burns. It hurts to let go. Tyler wraps his arms around himself. He starts to cry, to really cry – brutal and furious tears. 

He holds all of them in his mind, everyone that’s gone and lost. And then he thinks about his parents. And he thinks maybe it’s bad luck to remember his parents when he’s mourning the dead. But he spares a desperate, silent plea: _please let them be different. Please let them be found_. Telling some deity he doesn’t really believe in, _even if he wasn’t a good man, he was good to me._

Tanner doesn’t touch him. Tanner watches him rub the tears out of his eyes, but he doesn’t touch Tyler, and he doesn’t say anything. He stands next to Tyler like he’s waiting. 

There’s one last item on the desk Tyler recognizes. He reaches out a hand and brushes a fingertip across Tanner’s hymnal, so, so careful. “I’m sorry about that time I – I messed with this. I know it’s important to you.” 

Tanner reaches around Tyler to pick it up. He turns it in his hands, and it’s clear the weight of it – the size of it, is familiar in his palm. The way he thumbs the pages, the crease in the cover, all speak to an object broken in by hours of contact. “We had Chapel every morning.” He speaks without looking at Tyler, without looking away from the pages. He smiles. “We sang. Or just listened to – it didn’t matter. It just mattered that nothing happened there. It was good because I was safe there.” Tanner takes a breath and then another, and then he looks at Tyler. Looks right at him, looks right through him, perfect and lovely and honest and true. “I like being here with you, because I feel safe here. That’s not – you can’t take that for granted.” 

“If I could,” Tyler says. “I’d make sure no one ever hurt, ever again.” He means it. Every cell in him, every thud of his heart, means it more than anything. 

Tanner looks like he might cry. “Ty,” he says. “That’s not the kind of thing you can promise – ” 

Tyler takes the hymnal from him and sets it aside. He wraps his arms around Tanner, pulling him in tight, and Tanner’s arms come around him. “You and me,” Tyler says. “And it doesn’t matter where we are, or what happens, I swear – ” He can feel Tanner’s fingers digging into him, and the hear the rasp of his breath, and they stand like that for what feels like a long, long time. 

Tanner stiffens, pulling away a little. “Listen,” he says, a frown etching his face. 

And faint but unmistakable, Tyler hears the sound of a car coming up the gravel drive. 

 

 

It’s not the right day for Bill to come for them. Tyler frowns and wipes his face, and they walk out to the porch. Tanner keeps a hand at the small of Tyler’s back. Outside, they stand and watch a car navigate its way closer. 

“That’s Quick’s car,” Tanner says. 

Jon Quick hasn’t come out to the cabin since the first day he dropped them off. Tyler narrows his eyes and steps closer to Tanner. When it draws nearer, he can make out that there’s someone in the car with Quick. He’s brought someone with him. That’s never happened before. 

Tyler doesn’t say anything. 

The car comes to a stop in front of the cabin, and Jon Quick gets out. His passenger gets out too, and pushes his hat back, and looks up toward the cabin. 

That’s Wayne. 

Tyler’s off like a shot, running down the steps and across the yard. He barely hears Tanner call out after him. 

Wayne says, “Tyler. Jesus fucking Christ, _Tyler_.” He holds Tyler at arm’s length, staring at him. “Holy shit,” he says, and pulls Tyler into a hug. 

Tyler wraps his arms around Wayne, and in a spectacularly embarrassing fashion, begins to cry. 

Wayne pulls back to look at him. “Jesus, you shot up. Look at you.” 

Tyler smiles weakly, fingers still clutching. Wayne’s hair is shorter, and he looks more tired than Tyler ever remembers him being, and he’s older, of course. But he’s grinning at Tyler just exactly the way he used to up in Scarborough. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Wayne says again. He shakes his head. “Half the fucking eastern seaboard looking for you, and here you are.” 

That makes Tyler go still. “People are looking for me?” 

Wayne looks at Quick. 

Quick clears his throat. He comes around the car to stand next to them, and he holds out his hand to Tyler. “Jonathan Quick,” he says. “Nice to meet you.” His voice is dry. 

Tyler swallows. Quick looks serious, almost solemn. Tyler takes his hand, holds it in a hesitant grip. “Tyler Toffoli.” 

“Yeah.” Quick cracks a small smile. “Yeah, I figured.” He looks past Tyler at Tanner, who has drifted off the porch and towards them. “And you? You wanna come clean too?” 

Tanner looks wary, eyes flicking back and forth between Wayne and Quick. “Tanner Pearson.” He sketches a wave. Quick doesn’t bother to look surprised. 

Wayne looks back at Tyler and laughs, catches hold of Tyler’s chin and turns it left and right. “Tyler Toffoli. All grown up. I’ll be damned.” 

Tyler smiles. 

“Hey guys,” Quick says. “Seeing as we have a couple things to talk about, maybe we can take this inside? Sit down?” 

They start to shift towards the cabin’s steps. Tanner is the only one who doesn’t move. “Who is this?” He has a skeptical expression firmly in place. His eyes dart from Wayne to Tyler. 

Tyler blinks, clears his throat. “Oh. Sorry. This is my friend, Wayne Simmonds. From Scarborough.” 

Tanner nods, just the smallest inclination of his head. Tyler reaches for him, but Tanner stays just out of arm’s reach. 

Wayne keeps his hand on Tyler’s shoulder as they walk in. 

 

 

“Dean Lombardi sent me,” Wayne says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a surefire way to make Tyler almost drop the mug he’s holding. 

He swallows. “Really?” 

Wayne shrugs. “Yeah. He’s been looking for you. Quickie said he had a couple kids turn up who said they were from Manch. Lombardi said, ‘Go find out if it’s Tyler.’” He smiles. 

Lombardi talking to Quick. Quick talking to Lombardi. Tyler looks at Quick, who’s looking up at the ceiling. He glances at Tyler out of the corner of his eye and inclines his head just a fraction. Liar, Tyler thinks. But then, he wouldn’t be the only one. He doesn’t need to get distracted right now. He looks back at Wayne. “Is he – is he okay?” 

“Lombardi?” Wayne looks surprised for a second. “Sure. He’s fine. Just worried about you.” He pauses. “Like your dad. Your dad must be real worried too. Unless – have you talked to him?” The question comes out very careful, pitched very casual. 

Tyler stiffens anyway, and next to him, Tanner draws himself up straighter, and he looks at Tyler. Tyler keeps his eyes on Wayne and shakes his head. “I haven’t talked to my dad. Not for a really long time.” 

Wayne just lets it go, like it’s not important. “Okay, okay.” Wayne looks around the cabin. “This is a really nice set up you’re got here. You been here long?” 

“A month.” Tanner says, just at the same moment Tyler says, “Five weeks.” 

Tyler looks at Tanner, but Tanner’s staring at Wayne, and he doesn’t look away. 

Wayne lifts an eyebrow. “Okay. Well, why don’t you tell me how you got here?” 

He listens to Tyler tell the whole story – of the Union arriving at the compound and their flight from it. When he tells the part about the ranger station, Wayne and Quick exchange glances. 

“That’s why we lied about our names,” Tyler says. He steals a glance at Quick. “We were afraid.” 

“I imagine Greener’s gonna want to hear about that,” Wayne says. 

“I imagine Greener’s gonna rain down hellfire, if that’s what you mean. He’s not big on any of the Hill groups coming down on hockey players.” Quick’s arms are crossed over his chest. 

Tyler hesitates. He thinks about Grace, running out of the cabin to greet her aunt. 

Quick nods at him to continue. “Then what?” 

“We went south,” Tyler says, and describes their journey through Manchester, and past it to Hamden. 

Wayne shakes his head at the end. “I can’t believe you made it out of the compound. I can’t believe you weren’t killed crossing the contested zone. That’s some luck.” 

“Yeah,” Tyler says. “I guess.” 

Wayne smiles at him. “You like it here?” 

Tyler darts a glance at Quick, and then at Tanner, but it doesn’t look like Tanner’s planning on saying much of anything. His posture is stiff. His arms folded tightly in front of him. “Yes,” Tyler says, not sure where this is going. 

“Good, good,” Wayne says, almost absently. “Quickie said your plan was to get out to California?” 

Tyler hesitates. He looks at Quick again, but Quick’s back to studying the ceiling. “We wanted to try to find Dean. Or our teammates. Quick said – ” And Tyler stops, because he’s no longer sure if Quick had ever really meant it. Any of it. He feels foolish. He looks at Tanner again. 

Tanner just looks angry. 

Wayne leans forward. “Dean’s been traveling a lot.” 

That makes sense, and Tyler braces himself to be told that they don’t know where he is, or that Tyler’s not going to get to see him. “Okay.” 

“I could take you to him, if that’s what you wanted.” 

“Really?” And for the first time in a long time, Tyler lets himself hope that things could be easy. Things are going to work out. Things are going to be taken care of. Wayne will get them to Dean, and Dean will see to it that everything’s fine. 

“Sure.” Wayne smiles. “Would you like that?” 

Tyler grins back at him and starts to answer. 

“Tyler, can I talk to you for a minute?” Tanner’s voice is really clipped, really tight. “Outside?” 

Tyler frowns. “Sure.” 

Tanner walks outside and he doesn’t stop until they’re a good twenty yards from the cabin. He looks at Tyler, dead on. “Ty.” 

“What?” Tyler says, bewildered. “What?” 

“Are you sure about this?” 

“Sure about _what?”_

Tanner looks pissed. “This guy just shows up, and you’ll just tell him everything, and then you’re just gonna go off with him? Don’t you remember the last time – ” 

“Of course I fucking remember that,” Tyler hisses back. “But this is Wayne. This is my friend.” 

“When was the last time you saw him? When was the last time you talked to him?” 

Tyler remembers being thirteen and watching Wayne leave. Tyler remembers the ache. “Why does that matter?” 

“How could it not matter?” He grabs Tyler’s arm. “You don’t have any reason to trust him.” 

“He’s my friend.” Or he was, once. “And Dean sent him.” Which is plenty of reason, all the reason Tyler needs. 

Tanner lets his hand fall. He shakes his head. “You’re gonna go with him, aren’t you? You aren’t even gonna ask where, you’re just gonna go.” 

“He said he could take us to Dean.” Tyler shrugs, helpless. “And I don’t know what else to do. I don’t have any other fucking plans, Tanner – ” 

“We could just leave. Right now. We could just go.” 

“Go _where?_ ” Tyler gestures at the landscape around them. “And do _what_?” 

Tanner’s mouth opens, closes. He shakes his head. 

Tyler swallows. “We’d be going to Dean,” he says. “At least we’d be going somewhere. We’d be doing something. We’d – ” 

“You keep saying we.” Tanner interrupts. “I didn’t hear him offer to take me along.” 

Tyler stops. Tanner looks serious, like he thinks that’s an option. That he could go one way, and Tyler could go the other, and that could be it. Tyler could go with Wayne, and Tanner could stay here, and fight with Jonathan Quick, or head south, or go any way at all, and this could be it. And Tyler might never know what happened to him. 

Tyler thinks about clinging to him that first night in the woods, and Tanner’s face in the dark of the ranger station, and holding him close in the cabin, falling asleep next to him. Leaving him is not a possibility. “If you don’t do go, I won’t go. I’m not going without you.” 

Tanner’s eyes are on his face, close, careful attention. “You’re serious.” 

“Yeah,” Tyler breathes. “I am. I’m not going anywhere without you.” 

Tanner looks at him, one moment that lasts a million years. He reaches out and takes Tyler’s hand. “Well,” he starts. His voice gets stronger as it goes along. “Let’s go find Dean Lombardi.” 

 

 

Wayne looks over both of them, when they come back in. And in that long morning light, he says, “The Lake of the Woods. That’s where we’re going. That’s where we’ll meet Dean.” 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to Zoe, I owe a tremendous thank you to Kelsey, Von, and Lauren for their suggestions and constant encouragement. To everyone on twitter who put up with my bouts of neediness: I can’t believe you didn’t block me, thank you. And to you, Reader, when I say this is for _you,_ I really, really mean it: Thank You. It wouldn’t be the same without you.
> 
> The Big Picture: This is chapter 2 of what will be 4 chapters. I think chapter 3 will be shorter, but then, I thought this chapter would be around 30K so what do I know? I’m thinking Summer for chapter 3, but I’ll keep you all posted via [twitter](https://twitter.com/ionthesparrow12) / [dreamwidth](http://ionthesparrow.dreamwidth.org/) for how that progress is going. 
> 
> Of the many ways my friends kept me encouraged was sending me music that made them think of this universe/story. And then getting to send them back songs that inspired me. So, if that’s your thing: [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVAfR3QjFKo) [are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XF-qH7G9ACI) [some](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzQYtpjMjSo) [of my](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A45iG8dbQPU) [favorites](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lH0p-lbcRGY). (and, you know, feel free to share your favorites with me below. Maybe by the end of this, I’ll have enough for a playlist :)


	3. R-O-C-K in the U-S-A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A a heartfelt thank you to Von, for reading early drafts of this. To Sarah, for letting me discuss it endlessly. To Kelsey, whose fault all this still is, and to Zoe for reasons she knows all too well. 
> 
> And thank you to those of you who have read and been patient enough to stick with me. I can't tell you how much all your feedback and encouragement has meant to me over these many (many) months. (additional notes follow at the end). 
> 
>  
> 
> **Content Warnings:**
> 
>  
> 
> All warnings from earlier parts still apply. In this chapter, I would like to emphasize warnings for: Homophobia. Racism. Graphic violence. Police violence. Graphic violence/injury with overtones of self harm. Basically, violence. 
> 
> As always, if after reading, you felt inadequately warned, or would like the language of this warning adjusted, please don't hesitate to contact me at ionthesparrow12 @ gmail, or @ionthesparrow12 on twitter.

* * *

 

Wayne’s arrival starts a clock ticking. 

They’re going to leave. It’s just a matter of when. 

Wayne would like to leave soon – leave now. He says as much, and Tyler can see he means it in the way his fingers drum over his knee, in the way he sits perched on the edge of the couch, not quite willing to settle. 

The four of them are packed into the living room of the cabin. A small space for four large men, Tyler thinks, even if two of them weren’t on edge – while Wayne sits next to Tyler on the couch, antsy and ready to spring, Tanner hovers near the door. He was leaning against the doorframe, but he’s given up feigning even that level of ease. His arms are crossed tight to his chest. He only looks at Tyler with these fast, darting glances. 

Quick seems set on counterbalancing both their nerves with aggressive relaxation. He sprawls – slouched in the last chair, legs stretched in front of him. His fingers are knit together over his stomach, head tipped back, eyes at half mast. “Sixteen hundred miles,” he says, dragging the words out, like a reflection of the length of their journey. 

Wayne tips his head in acknowledgement. “Which is why I’d like to get going.” 

Tanner’s eyes land on Tyler’s when Wayne says _going_. Tyler watches Tanner shift, foot to foot. He would like it better if Tanner was in arm’s reach. If he could lean over and put a hand on Tanner’s shoulder, offer some reassuring touch. But Tanner stays across the room, so instead Tyler just looks at him and tries to make his gaze convey some form of comfort. 

Tanner blinks in response. He looks startled, like he’s been caught at something. He drops his eyes. 

“You thought about which way you’re going?” Quick shifts, resting one ankle across one knee. “Cause you’re sure as shit not going through Toronto.” 

“No.” Wayne sounds irritated, as if that much should be obvious. He folds his hands together loosely in front of him, looks at Quick dead on, and Tyler is reminded of Wayne at sixteen, who even back then had played with a precise economy. All his motions cool and calculated, even when he was throwing punches. 

“Or Chicago?” There’s more of question in Quick’s voice now, and he actually looks up, looks at Wayne while waiting on his answer. 

Wayne turns a hand over, palm up. “I thought we’d follow the northern front – west to Cincinnati. Then cut north through Michigan. Cross the bridge into Ontario. West again from there.” 

Tyler watches Tanner mouth the names silently down at the ground. _Michigan. Ontario._ His arms still held tightly to his chest. His eyes still refusing to look up. 

“Well, Rook, sounds like you know more about it than I do.” Quick’s posture is still sprawled and loose, but there’s a bitter edge creeping into his voice. 

Wayne narrows his eyes. It feels like there might be an argument, even if no one has yet admitted to arguing. Wayne takes a breath. “Everything we know about the route is thanks to what you all out here have pieced together.” He traces a jagged line in the air that Tyler thinks is meant to mimic the eastern seaboard. 

Quick hums. 

“Nobody out west has forgotten the work you’re doing. Even if they are, as you pointed out, quite a distance away.” 

Tyler has been so focused on Wayne, on the fact that Wayne is back, and Wayne saying he could take them to Dean, that up until now he hadn’t really even thought of the trip. In his mind, Tyler had thought about them all together, here in the cabin, and then skipped right over to him and Tanner and Wayne reuniting with Dean at the Lake of the Woods. He hadn’t thought about how far it was or the effort it would take to get there. The risks that it would mean. 

He darts another look over at Tanner. Tanner’s probably even more worried. Because for Tanner, it’s worse – he doesn’t know Wayne, and he doesn’t know Dean like Tyler knows Dean, so add in the uncertainty of what’s waiting for them when they get there. Tyler resolves to offer him some reassurance when they get a moment alone. 

Tyler coughs. “Is that safe? Crossing into Ontario?” Toronto, and the parts of Ontario near it, are supposed to be where the Union is strongest. 

Quick snorts. 

Wayne though, just shrugs. “Well, he’s certainly got a right to know.” And then to Tyler, “The Union presence west of Sudbury is real thin. There’s a Union post in Chicago, but they’re pretty isolated. My information is that there’s enough of a no man’s land for us to shoot the gap and make it across the lakes. But the situation is… fluid.” 

None of that makes Tyler feel much better, but at the very least, he appreciates Wayne’s honesty. 

Quick’s mouth twists in response. “And I suppose I’m expected to outfit this cannonball run?” 

Wayne’s gaze shifts back to Quick. “We do need your help. A car. The gas to run it.” 

Quick watches him close. Only his eyes moving. “You’re tight with Lombardi. Why couldn’t he get you a car?” 

Wayne doesn’t even blink. “He trusted you to get it for me.” 

Quick shifts, both feet onto the ground, and then shifts again, sitting up and letting his hands dangle loose in front of him. Wayne watches all this, silent and still, and all those years ago, Tyler thinks, Wayne had looked the exact same way when he had announced to the older boys at the rink that Tyler was allowed to play with them. Had simply waited out their objections with the patience of a man who knew he was going to be the last one standing in the end. 

There’s a pause before Quick speaks, sounding close to, if not quite, mollified. “I can get you a vehicle. I can get you enough gas to get you to Cincy. And I know people in Cincy who might could sell you more, but – ” He spreads his hands. “That’s a lot. It’s gonna be pricey.” 

Wayne’s fingers drum again over his knee. Tyler watches him tap out a slow beat. “Lombardi’s… willing to call in some markers for this.” The words come out quiet but deliberate. 

Quick’s watching him just as close as Tyler. “Oh, yeah?” 

Wayne pulls a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. He shakes the contents free, and when he opens his hand, Tyler can see gold – the size and shape of bars of chewing gum, and silver coins – each bearing a number and stamped with a shield crest. “I got gold and I got IOUs.” 

Quick picks up one of the gold pieces, testing its weight in his hand. Just for a second, the surprise shows clear on his face. He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.” 

And then he looks at Tyler. 

Tyler thinks he’s going to say something. His eyes crawl over Tyler’s face with real focus, like he’s trying to learn something new about Tyler, just from looking. 

In the end, all he does is stand. He throws one of the gold pieces in the air and catches it, spinning his wrist and then opening his hand to reveal an empty palm. “I’ll go get you that car.” Quick looks from Tyler to Tanner. “You said your name was Pearson, right? Come with me.” 

Tanner looks up, startled. “Why?” 

Quick hesitates, the half-beat, Tyler thinks, of manufacturing a reason. “Because I need a second driver.” 

“Okay,” Tanner says, slowly. 

“We’ll be back,” Quick says, although it’s Tyler he’s still looking at. “Soon.” 

 

 

It’s strange being in the cabin without Tanner. It makes Tyler restless in a way that even the novelty of Wayne’s presence can’t ease. 

There has never been a time in Tyler’s life when he wasn’t happy to see Wayne. Looking up and seeing Wayne on the ice meant a good scoring chance. Wayne on the bench meant there was always a spot reserved for Tyler. And now Wayne here – in Hamden – means somebody finally looking out for him. More than that, it means direction. 

Tyler takes a breath. He looks out the front window – from this vantage he can see the road that Quick and Tanner disappeared down. The day has edged over into the afternoon, and the sun coming through the windows makes the cabin warm. Tyler gets up and opens the window to allow a breeze. He looks out at the trees, at their shadows, starting their creep across the yard. From here, he can also see the edge of the trench he and Tanner built, still unfinished. Maybe someone else will finish it for Quick. Or maybe no one will. Maybe in a month it will be just as choked with weeds as it was at the beginning of the summer. 

That’s an irritating thought. Tyler poured sweat into that trench. He has blisters from digging. That ought to mean something. But none of that changes the fact that they’re leaving. Because Wayne came for him. Tyler turns away from the window to look at Wayne. 

Wayne is paging through one of the National Geographic magazines. 

Tyler looks out the window again. At the gravel road that leads away from their cabin, the one cut of gray amongst the gold of the fading grass and the wild, burning colors of the turning trees. So much out there, and here they had been so isolated. The middle of nowhere. So cut off. 

Tyler stares at the road, and he starts to frown. He looks at the twist where it disappears, and he feels cold, even though the afternoon sun is still strong. The longer he looks, the darker the shadows seem. Tyler turns away from the window. He looks again at Wayne. “Wayne?” 

Wayne looks up. 

Tyler feels sort of queasy. A weird feeling of guilt coloring his thoughts. Wayne came for him. He shouldn’t be questioning it. But. “Quick said, the phone network was down – that that’s part of why communication is so hard?” 

“Yeah,” Wayne agrees. 

Tyler lets the pause stretch. “But – you’re here. You knew to come here. So, Quick got ahold of you somehow?” 

He knows Wayne will hear the question, he just doesn’t know if Wayne will answer. Tyler thinks of Dean, and how Dean’s face somehow still remained kind when he danced around Tyler’s questions. Or Quick and his dark gaze when he said things that might or might not be true. 

Wayne sets the magazine aside. He twists to look at Tyler over the back of the couch, watches him for a moment before replying, “Sometimes we can use radio, but the range is inconsistent. And we can’t use it for sensitive information. Mostly we have people like Matt Greene – who you met?” He waits for Tyler to nod. “Greener travels all over. So Quick tells him something. Greener carries it to someone else in his network who covers a range a bit further west. They talk to other people even further than that. Those people talk to Dean, or whoever needs the info. I don’t even know who most of the people that make up that network are. They tend to be pretty paranoid.” 

_Paranoid._ “Quick didn’t tell me any of that.” 

Wayne’s mouth tips. “It’s part of Quickie’s job to keep secrets.” He looks serious again. “But Jon Quick wants what we all want. Which is to keep you safe. He just thought keeping you in the dark was the best way to do that.” 

Tyler nods, slow. “And what do you think?” 

Wayne’s gaze on him remains level. “I can’t tell you it’s going to be easy. But I will be straight with you. I will tell you what you need to know, even if I can promise you you’re sometimes not gonna like hearing it.” 

Tyler nods again. 

“It’s not going to be an easy ride to the Lake,” Wayne continues. “And the further from the coast we get, the less information we’ll have.” 

“Because information has to travel by word of mouth?” 

Wayne looks about as dissatisfied by that as Tyler feels. “Yes.” 

It is basically the most backwards system Tyler’s ever heard of. The idea that they’ve gone to war like this, they’re risking people’s _lives_ like this, effectively blind and deaf – is ridiculous. “That doesn’t sound very... efficient.” 

“It’s slow as fuck, but the cell towers are all run through a computer network. As long as the Union’s controlling that, all the cell phones, all the databases, all the electronic means of communication are basically worthless.” Wayne shrugs. “So we make do.” 

If they had the network back, Tyler thinks, that would mean so much more than easier communication. It could mean databases. Records. Who _knows_ what else – 

Wayne coughs. “Now, I haven’t seen you for years, Tyler Toffoli. I want to know what great exploits you’ve been up to.” His voice is warm, teasing. “You must have some stories.” 

Tyler glances up, distracted. “I guess – sure.” 

Wayne grins. “So tell me about it.” 

 

 

“So, Giroux – ” After Tyler had given a summarized version of what life with the Monarchs was like, Wayne had taken over. Wayne played in the NHL, and he had a million stories, all of them wilder than anything Tyler got up to in backwoods New Hampshire. “He – you remember that move that Kleps was always trying to pull, back in Scarborough? Where he put the puck through his legs?” 

“You mean the one where he ended up facedown on the ice?” Kleps was one of the less talented guys they had played with, but sometimes when you’re filling out a roster, needs must. And he was big. 

Wayne laughs. “Yeah. So right after coach says, ‘don’t get cute’ – that’s the very first thing Giroux does. Except he, of course, pulls it off.” He shakes his head. “You would have loved playing with Gee. You guys would have scored eight goals a game.” 

Tyler pulls a face. “And play for the Orange? Never.” 

“Hey.” Wayne socks his shoulder and Tyler grins. It’s good to talk hockey again. And it’s easy to talk hockey with Wayne. Tyler shakes his head and reaches over to flip on the lamp – they’re starting to lose the light. Tyler’s stomach growls, and he realizes with a start, that it’s growing late. It’s the time he and Tanner would normally be making dinner. 

Tyler looks out the window, but there’s no sign of a car’s approach. He swallows. Tanner will be back. It’s just a matter of waiting. “You hungry?” He asks Wayne. 

“Sure.” He gives Tyler a skeptical look. “You gonna cook something?” 

Tyler scowls, mocks offense. “I can throw something together, yeah.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Out of my way.” Tyler heads for the kitchen. There’s soup that can be re-heated. And bread. And sausage that can be cooked in the big cast iron skillet. Tyler’s watched Tanner do that a dozen times. He can manage. 

Wayne watches him cook, posted up against the counter, and an impressed grin on his face. “Tyler Toffoli. Turning over a new leaf.” He shakes his head. “That even smells edible.” 

Tyler gestures at him with the spatula. “Just you wait.” He turns his attention back to the pan for a moment before admitting, “Actually, Tanner does most of the cooking. He’s better at it.” 

“You guys get along?” 

Tyler smiles down at the stove. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s – ” 

From outside comes the sound of a car coming up the gravel drive. He’s _back_ , Tyler thinks, and his smile goes a little wider. 

A moment later, the door opens and Tanner walks into the kitchen. “Hey,” he says. There’s a fixed, careful brightness to his voice that Tyler thinks sounds practiced. And maybe, if you listen closely, an anxiousness underneath. 

What Tyler would like to say, is: _are you okay?_ And, _everything is going to be fine._ And, _I know you’re nervous, but we can trust Wayne, I promise._ But Tanner wouldn’t appreciate that, not in front of Wayne, so what Tyler actually says, is, “Hey.” 

Tanner tosses a quick nod at Wayne. “I brought our ride. Quick says he’ll be back in the morning with the gas we need.” 

“Well, if that’s the best we can do, I guess that’s the best we can do.” Wayne shrugs, and then tips his head towards Tyler. “Tyler’s making dinner.” 

“I can see.” Tanner comes over to inspect the preparations. “You good? You need anything?” 

He’s so close, with his head bent near to Tyler’s, and Tyler wants nothing more than to pull him closer. Or for Tanner to kiss him, or lean against him, or even just rest his hand on Tyler’s back. 

But he doesn’t. He stands near, but carefully not touching Tyler. And when Tyler looks at his face, Tanner is smiling his careful, fixed smile. His public face, Tyler thinks. This is how Tanner looks in Quick’s backyard, and before that, how he looked in the dorms. This is how Tanner looks around everyone else, around strangers. It’s not how he’s supposed to look here. That makes something ache, sharp in Tyler’s stomach, and he has to look away to focus. All he can do is bump his shoulder into Tanner’s. “Maybe set the table?” 

“Yeah,” Tanner says, voice full of mock-ease. “I can do that.” 

 

 

“Would you like any more? We’re just going to have to throw out any leftovers.” Tanner offers the ladle to Wayne. 

Wayne smiles and declines. 

Tanner has been unfailingly polite through dinner. He smiles at Wayne with the broad, flat grin that Tyler considers part of his public persona. He treats Tyler with almost as much bland and careful distance. Tyler finds this worrying. 

Wayne, if he senses this is an act, seems content to let it go unchallenged and fills the evening with polite, meaningless small talk. “So, where are you from?” He asks Tanner. 

“Kitchener,” Tanner answers. Short, but with a smile still on his face. 

Wayne nods. “Your family still up there?” 

Tanner’s expression goes tighter. “No.” 

“No?” Wayne looks up at him from across the table. “They somewhere else?” 

Tanner swallows. His hands are frozen in front of him. “No.” 

Wayne lets the silence stretch. 

Tyler clears his throat. “What exactly is at the Lake of the Woods?” 

Wayne looks over at him. He gestures with the piece of bread he’s holding. “The Lake’s an independent community. Self-sustaining. Isolated. It was set up by the Richards family. Mikey’s running it now. Mike Richards,” he clarifies. “It’s probably one of the places least touched by the Union. One of the safest places you can be.” 

Tyler blinks. “Mike Richards’ family is running an independent community?” 

Wayne nods. His face is bland, like this is old news. 

“Wait. There _are_ independent communities?” This is not old news to Tyler. This is definitely the first he’s heard of it, and it’s – huge. “How long has it been around? How does it work? How many people are there?” 

Wayne chuckles. “We’re gonna be there before too long. And you can see how it works in person.” 

Tyler purses his lips. “How long is it going to take to get there?” 

“Depends on the state of the roads.” Wayne looks thoughtful. “But even with two of us trading off driving, it’s at least thirty-five hours behind the wheel.” 

“That sounds like a long way.” 

“It is. Gonna make for a couple real long days. Which is why we should probably sleep soon.” 

Right up until that very moment, it never occurred to Tyler to think about where Wayne would sleep. “You’re sleeping here?” It’s a stupid question. Of course he is. But Tyler can’t quite keep the note of surprise out of his voice. 

Wayne shrugs. “Couch won’t kill me for one night.” 

Tyler stares at the couch, blinks like he’s seeing it for the first time. It’s sitting right there, right where it always has been, exactly between Tanner’s room and Tyler’s loft. He looks to Tanner, but Tanner is avoiding his eyes. 

Tanner stands and reaches for the dishes. “I’ll clean up.” 

Tyler is an idiot, because it also hadn’t sunk in that this is their last night here. Everything seizes up all at once in Tyler’s chest, everything thrown into sudden disarray. Tyler wants – 

“You can have the loft,” Tyler says, words spilling out quick. “I’ll take the couch.” 

Wayne frowns. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“No.” Tyler smiles, hoping it looks genuine. “I don’t mind. You’ve been traveling. And you have to drive.” 

Wayne smiles at him. “Thanks.” 

Tyler goes warm. He feels like a pendulum on a wild swing. Back once again to being grateful that Wayne is here. 

Wayne yawns. “You need anything from upstairs, before I – ” He gestures up towards the loft, and Tyler’s gaze follows his hand. 

And his mind swings back in the other direction. He goes from warm to a hot blush. Tyler’s not thinking anything through tonight, apparently, certainly not this. Wayne’s going to sleep upstairs. Out of the way, sure. But that’s Tyler’s bed. That’s the bed where Tyler and Tanner _fucked._

Tyler’s can feel his face getting redder. He can’t quite make himself meet Wayne’s eyes, and he’s glad Tanner is in the kitchen. “Yeah, and I’ll just – I’ll go put clean sheets on for you.” He stands and climbs the ladder. Wayne follows him up. Tyler can still feel himself blushing as he strips the bed quickly, wadding the sheets into a ball. The clean set is in the bottom drawer. He pulls these out. Wayne holds his hand out for them. Tyler hesitates just a second before turning them over. 

It’s weird to watch Wayne make up that bed. Tyler turns around, and instead he starts pulling clothes from the dresser, stuffing them into the empty laundry sack. He listens to the sounds of Wayne moving behind him. 

Wayne is here to take them to Dean. 

Tyler should be happy. 

Tyler _is_ happy. 

But this is the room and this is the bed where Tanner held him close, and where Tyler learned what it felt like for the whole universe to squeeze down to the sound of someone else’s breathing, and the look on their face, and their touch on your skin. They’re never going to do that again here. Tyler takes a quick breath, and the exhale comes out shaky. 

Wayne tugs the blanket straight. “You been alright, Tyler?” He asks it quiet, without looking up. His back still to Tyler. 

It takes Tyler a moment to be able to swallow, to speak. “I guess.” 

Wayne turns and looks at him. “I’m really glad I found you. I’m glad you’re safe.” 

A fresh rush of guilt washes over Tyler. Wayne came who knows how far to find him. To help him. “Me too.” 

Wayne nods towards the ladder. “I’m going to head downstairs. Wash up before bed.” 

Tyler manages a tight smile. “I’ll be down in a minute.” 

He keeps the smile pinned to his face as he watches Wayne climb down. As soon as he’s out of sight, Tyler grabs the oil from the bedside table drawer. He probably can’t take it with him – but the idea of Wayne finding it – not that Wayne would care – but he might think – 

Tyler sits on the edge of the bed. He tips his head up to the ceiling and laughs at himself. He might as well be twelve years old, all over again, hot under the collar and embarrassed about everything. 

In Scarborough, he learned how to play hockey at the rink, and he learned just about everything else in the locker room, or standing around at the bus stop. Every evening, after skating, the guys would stand around and wait for the bus, stamping their feet against the cold. Tyler could walk home from the rink, but he waited with them anyway. They were older, but they let him stand around with them, and listen to them, and when the flask got passed around, they let Tyler have some – the whiskey inside tasted awful, and it made Tyler’s eyes water, but it warmed him up from the inside. The later the bus ran, the more rounds the flask made, although at a certain point Wayne would start snagging it out of Tyler’s hands. 

“Can’t send you home shit-faced,” he said, when Tyler glared at him. “I’d be banned from every barn from here to Moosejaw.” 

The more rounds the flask made, the louder they got, laughter puffing out white and vivid in the night air. 

Tyler knew calculus, and history, and bits of Latin. But _they_ knew a thousand different ways to say _jerking off_ and a million dirty jokes, and they’d tell stories about girls – or the parts of girls they’d seen – or the things they’d tried to talk girls into doing, and Tyler would stand there and try to seem like he wasn’t hanging on every word. 

That didn’t always work, and sometimes Wayne would laugh and shake his head. “God, Tyler, you should see your face.” 

Tyler smiles up at the cabin ceiling. Here he is. Hundreds of miles and half a lifetime away, and he’s still worried about Wayne laughing at him. He turns the bottle of oil over in his hands, studying it for a second before slipping it into his pocket. 

And that’s it. That’s everything in the room that’s his. Tyler looks out the window at the familiar view. Every night he watched these trees fill up with the dark shapes of roosting birds, watched the leaves grow slowly orange and gold. Every morning, the sun coming up over those hills woke him. If they stayed here, he’d learn what the hillside looked like covered in snow. He imagines the brown and gray skeleton the garden would fade to. He imagines what the window would look like covered in frost. 

His smile disappears. But instead, they’re moving forward. They’re moving forward, because they have to, and because it’s the right thing. They’re going to Dean, who has answers, maybe even to questions Tyler hasn’t thought to ask yet. And maybe the answers to the questions that Tyler asks himself every day. Tyler takes a breath. It’s dark enough outside that the light in the room throws his reflection up on the glass. Tyler studies his own profile, wondering what he looks like to Wayne. If he looks different. If he looks older. He wonders what he’ll look like to his parents, when he sees them again. Whenever and wherever that is. 

Tyler’s thoughts pause. Maybe it’ll be at Lake of the Woods. Wayne said it was one of the safest places you can be. If people on the east coast are looking for his dad, and if Dean is trying to help his parents – Tyler tries not to get too excited, but it makes so much sense for them to be at the Lake. And it would explain why Dean is trying so hard to get _him_ to the Lake. 

But – earlier Wayne hadn’t known where Tyler’s dad is. Tyler chews his lip. But that doesn’t necessarily mean Dean doesn’t. Dean could have brought his parents to the Lake and then not told anyone, because it was safer. Or maybe it happened after Dean sent Wayne to go look for him. He imagines his parents in some kind of lakeside house. Maybe it’s a cabin like the one he and Tanner have. Or maybe it’s more like a hotel. But either way, he’s _going_ there. He’s going to see them. Tyler’s throat closes. His mom is going to cry so much, and his dad – 

Tyler blinks rapidly. He tries to imagine what they’ll talk about first, about where’s he’s been, about Manchester, about Hamden. He tries to imagine introducing them to Tanner, and stops short. 

What on earth is he supposed to say about Tanner? 

_This is my friend._

_This is my best friend._

_This is the most important person in the whole world._

_This is –_

Tyler stops. None of those options seem right. Or, they’re right, but they’re missing something. Everything he and Tanner are is too complicated to even think about, much less try to put into words. Tyler imagines a different version of his life, one where Dustin Brown never started a revolution, and Tyler and his family never left the Blue  & White. He imagines bringing Tanner back home to his parents in Scarborough. They would have met at the rink, of course. Maybe Tanner would have been on his junior team and they became friends that way, like how normal people become friends. But there still isn’t a way to say, a way to get his parents to understand – 

Tyler frowns. Maybe if Tanner were a girl he could – but that option isn’t appealing at all. So, maybe if _Tyler_ were a girl, and still somehow played hockey, maybe then – 

But that’s stupid. If he’s going to make up fantasies, he might as well go all out. So Tyler imagines an even more impossible world: one where he is a boy, and he meets Tanner playing hockey, and he brings Tanner home to his parents in Scarborough, and says, “This is Tanner Pearson. He means everything to me.” 

His dad would like Tanner. Tyler knows that immediately. He would like Tanner’s resourcefulness and his thoughtfulness. Tyler’s mother would be more skeptical, because she would see right through Tanner’s public façade. But eventually she would see his sly humor and his wit and the careful way he looks after Tyler. 

Tyler has to stop. He puts his face in his hands and breathes for a moment, eyes closed. 

That world doesn’t exist. Tyler takes another breath. He straightens and rests his hands on his knees. Right now, he just needs to hope they all get to the Lake safely. 

It’s not a small thing to hope for. 

 

 

Downstairs, Wayne is sitting on the couch, thumbing through a National Geographic again. “You make it through all of these?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “Just some of them.” 

Wayne sets it back on the shelf. “Well. As long as you’re not too hung up on leaving before you got a chance to finish.” 

That hits close to home, and it must show on his face because Wayne rises and gives Tyler’s shoulder a squeeze. “Get some rest, okay? Gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

Tyler watches him climb up to the loft. The light upstairs flicks off. Tyler strips down to his shorts and t-shirt. He turns off the lamp and stretches out on the couch, pulling the quilt over him. It’s dark enough in the living room that he can tell the light is still on in Tanner’s room, spilling out from under the closed door. 

Tyler waits for what feels like an impossible amount of time. Waits for the sounds of Wayne walking around upstairs to stop, and for the cabin to grow quiet and feel very still around him. The creaking foundation and the wind outside become the loudest sounds, but the soft glow of light doesn’t disappear from under Tanner’s door. 

Tyler crosses the room, and he taps as light as he can. 

Tanner opens the door almost immediately. Tyler blinks when the light hits his face. Tanner steps aside to let him enter and closes the door behind him. 

“Hey,” Tyler whispers. 

“Hey,” Tanner says back. So quiet Tyler can’t hear him at all, can just read the word on his lips. 

He looks so frozen, Tyler doesn’t know where to start, what to say, except it’s been so hard, having Tanner skirt around him all day, just out of reach, when all he’s wanted to do is wrap his arms around him. 

So he does that. Holds on. With his face tucked into Tanner’s neck, and his hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. 

Tanner goes loose around him, holds him close, a hand in Tyler’s hair, the other arm tight around his shoulders. They stay pressed so close Tyler can feel him breathing, can feel it when Tanner swallows. Tyler closes his eyes. 

He feels Tanner’s hand move along his jaw, and it just takes the smallest turn and lift of his face to get his mouth to Tanner’s and kiss him. Tanner holds his face in both hands, and even the quietest things seem loud: his pulse roaring and his breath an unsteady rasp. 

Tanner presses his forehead to Tyler’s, eyes still closed, hands still holding Tyler close. 

Tyler kisses his face, light, careful. His cheek. His jaw. His forehead. His ear. Anything he can reach. Tanner keeps his eyes squeezed shut, holding onto Tyler so hard it almost hurts. “It’s gonna be okay,” Tyler says. “We’re gonna be okay.” Like that means anything. Like he has any way of knowing, and like Tyler’s not also a half-breath from shaking apart. 

Tanner kisses him, and kisses him again when Tyler tries to speak, and so Tyler stays quiet, and keeps himself tight against Tanner. He concentrates on the warmth of Tanner’s skin under his hands, the slickness of his mouth, and the uneven rise and fall of his chest. He smells like the piney soap they have in the cabin, and underneath that like the sour, chalky tang of nervous sweat. His fingers dig into Tyler, like he could wind them even tighter together – it makes Tyler’s heart go faster, like some chemical reaction has quickened his blood, like if he lets go, they both might vibrate apart and shatter. 

Tyler holds on. His breath catches in his throat, and Tanner loops an arm around his neck, turns his face to press his lips hard to Tyler’s temple. 

They stand, breathing, close and fast. In sync. Tyler opens his eyes; all the traces of Tanner are gone from the room. Vey and Wealer’s things have disappeared from the desk. All the various and sundry treasures that once decorated this room, that made it Tanner’s, are gone. It took weeks, Tyler thinks, for them to get all this right, to set all this up, and now maybe an hour to undo it. Tanner used to have something here, some place of his own. And Tyler’s taking it away in exchange for – for something utterly unknown. Tyler wants to say something, but nothing in his head feels fully-formed enough to say. He doesn’t have any words for this. Tanner’s shaky in his arms, but he doesn’t know what Tanner needs to hear. They haven’t had enough time. They’ve just barely started. 

“I’m sorry.” Tyler says. It comes out choked, spoken right into Tanner’s skin. 

Tanner pulls back a little, enough to look Tyler in the eye. 

Tyler clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I know you like it here, and I know I’m making you leave.” 

Tanner looks irritated. “You’re not making me do anything.” 

He’s still holding onto Tyler, though, and his voice is rough. Tyler touches his face. “But you’re upset, and I – ” Tyler stops and tries to straighten his thoughts. “It seems like you’ve been mad all day.” 

Tanner takes a moment before replying. “Not mad. Nervous, maybe.” 

Tyler hates that. Hates it, even if it is probably the right response, and his stomach fills with something cold and queasy. I’ll take care of you, Tyler thinks. I’ll make sure nothing happens to us. Nothing’s going to happen to you. He doesn’t say it out loud. It’s too much to say out loud, and Tanner might – might laugh, or might not believe him, or might be offended, and Tyler doesn’t know. He’s so close. He’s right here, in Tyler’s arms, and Tyler’s not sure what he wants. 

Tyler shivers a little, and Tanner pulls him in again. Tyler leans into it. It feels good to be held. It feel good to be close. 

“Can I stay?” Tyler asks. “Just for a little while? And then I’ll let you get some sleep.” 

Tanner’s fingers curl around the back of his neck. “Stay as long as you want.” He shrugs, tight and small within the circle of Tyler’s arms. “I’m not going to sleep anyway.” 

He says it light – like he expects Tyler to smile. It’s not funny, though – “We’re gonna be traveling a long way,” Tyler says, frowning. “You need rest.” 

Tanner expression is crooked. “I’ll be fine.” He touches the corner of Tyler’s downturned mouth. “I didn’t sleep more than an hour or two a night my first couple weeks in Manch. Turned out okay.” 

Tyler doesn’t know if he means _okay_ , like he made the team, or _okay_ , like this. Like them, here, now, like they are. But there’s nothing okay about thinking about Tanner lying awake at night in Manchester. Tyler had a few sleepless night in Manchester, sure. But Tanner liked Manchester. Tyler has vivid memories of the first day Tanner showed up to camp, walking into the dorms like he owned the place. “You didn’t seem like you weren’t sleeping.” 

Tanner looks at him, a twist of a grin creeping back across his face. “Well, yeah. That’s the point. You gotta fake it.” 

Tyler thinks about Tanner in Manchester: fresh-faced and newly arrived, not knowing if he was going to make the team. Not knowing anyone and not knowing what it would be like or what to do, desperately pretending a confidence he didn’t feel. And Tyler – stupid enough to believe that facade. Tyler thinks about each and every casual cruelty, each one now sitting heavy and sick in his gut. “I’m sorry I wasn’t nicer to you.” 

“I – ” Tanner looks embarrassed. He avoids Tyler’s eyes. “I wasn’t exactly nice to you, either.” 

“No, but – I mean – ” Tyler stops. He wants to say: it was fine, it was nothing. But it was something. Just like this is something. 

Tanner does look up, his gaze glancing off Tyler and then away again. Tyler thinks he might say something, but instead he just moves his hand – from where it’s resting on Tyler’s shoulder, slides it down his arm until his hand catches and takes hold of Tyler’s hand. He tugs – a slow, steady pull towards the bed. 

It’s impossible not to follow him onto it. To lay down, when Tanner offers the space next to him, and to shuffle up close to Tanner. Tyler moves until their faces are just inches apart, their bodies making mirror image curves. Tanner tucks the blanket around both of them, making sure it’s drawn up close over Tyler’s shoulder. He reaches out to push Tyler’s hair away from his face, smiling while he does it, warm and soft and careful. Tyler closes his eyes. 

“Sleep, Ty,” Tanner mutters. “I’ll wake you up early enough to get you back out on the couch without Simmonds knowing you were in here.” 

Tyler opens his eyes. Tanner still has his hand, light, on Tyler’s face. His touch is still warm. The room is still quiet and dark around them. But everything feels just a little bit different. 

If the whole world was just this room, if it was just him and Tanner, than this would be good. The way Tanner’s touching his face is about comfort. The way he’s looking at Tyler is full of affection. And those are good things, good and right. And the way they are curled together, is perfect. 

But only in here. Tyler’s been dreaming up ways to tell people about this, and Tanner – Tanner’s making sure no one ever knows. That’s what all his careful distance is about. Just one more thing to carefully tuck away. He’s protecting them. Because if one tiny thing about this were to change – if the door to this room were open, rather than closed, then everything happening in here, everything about the way they are, would be bad. 

Everything would be wrong. Everything they are is perfect and impossible and good and dangerous, all at the same time. All of it can only exist because of a stupid door and a stupid lock. 

Tyler reaches out a catch Tanner’s fingers, tangling them with his own. “Have you heard of Schrodinger?” 

Tanner settles back against his pillow and mumbles, like he’s not fully paying attention, “No. Who’d he play for?” 

“Nobody, he was – ” Tyler looks at their interlocked hands. “It doesn’t matter. Never mind.” It doesn’t. Tyler knows he’s not supposed to be like this, but he is. The Union can think he’s wrong, but that’s not going to change anything. Tyler chews on his lip. It’s not bad that Tanner wants this to be a secret. That’s what’s safe. And that’s what they do: Tanner keeps Tyler safe, and Tyler would die before he let anything happen to Tanner. 

That’s just the way it is. They have to be careful, because they could get found out. And it would be really bad to be found out. Maybe not as bad as if they were still back in Manchester, but still bad, Tyler thinks. Maybe. Although it’s hard to imagine Quick caring. And Wayne – 

Tyler thinks back to that afternoon on the park bench in Scarborough with Wayne. He thinks about the weight of Wayne’s arm around him, and the weight of his words. How he’d known Tyler better than Tyler knew himself, and how Tyler’s heart had beat so hard and so fast in chest he was almost lightheaded, with the fear of it and the truth of it. 

Tanner’s face is turned up to the ceiling, one hand resting under his head, and Tyler studies his profile. It would be nice if – if it was safe – for Tanner to want – or for Tanner to at least be okay with – 

Tyler takes a little bit tighter grip on Tanner’s hand. “Wayne knows,” he offers. The words come really slow and choppy, because he has to force each and every one out. “I mean. He knows that I – like boys.” 

Tanner turns to stare at him. “That you _like boys_?” 

Tyler can hear the disbelief in Tanner’s voice. The sharp hint of mocking. Tyler goes very cold, and then hot all over, something sick and unhappy in his stomach. He pulls his hand out of Tanner’s grasp. 

Tanner blinks at him, startled. 

It’s one thing for the Union to think he’s wrong. The Union doesn’t know him. But Tanner’s inside the room with him. Tanner’s in bed with him, and if _he_ thinks it’s wrong – “Don’t make fun of me for that.” 

“Ty – ” There’s exasperation in Tanner’s voice now, and he smiles, reaching for Tyler. 

Tyler shifts out of reach. “Seriously. Don’t.” His heart’s going too quick, a cold wash of hurt rising up. 

Tanner watches him, very close. His smile fades. “I’m sorry,” he says. The roughness in his voice catches Tyler off guard. Tanner’s face has gone very serious, and his eyes are dark and focused on Tyler. “You like me,” he says, and it sounds raw, pulled from the depths of him. “You like _me.”_

 

 

Despite what he said, Quick doesn’t show up at the cabin again until late in the afternoon. The last crickets of summer have kicked into overdrive in the grass, their song loud. Tyler listens and waits on the porch; he wraps his arms around himself, hands tucked into sleeves as defense against the gathering chill. 

Tanner is next to him, silent, as he’s been nearly all day, and as close as he can be to Tyler while still leaving the exact interval of space he seems to have calculated as safe. 

Wayne paces. 

When Quick does finally show up, it’s with no apology, but carrying two big gas canisters, both full. Quick hefts them one at a time into their new ride’s trunk, the smell of the gas thick in the air. “Don’t hit anything, okay?” He smirks and shuts the trunk with a bang. “Even with this on board, you’re going be running into Cincy on fumes.” 

“But it’ll be enough?” Wayne asks. 

Quick wipes his hands on his thighs. He pats down his pockets in what Tyler recognizes as his cigarette-searching gesture, and then seems to think better of it. He shrugs. “It’ll have to be.” 

Wayne looks at Quick for a minute, his mouth a thin line, and then he turns. He raps his knuckles against the roof of the car, looking at Tyler across it. “Benefits of driving at night outweigh the risks, I guess.” 

He isn’t asking permission. And it isn’t really a question, but it sounds like he thought Tyler deserved to know, like Tyler is a partner in all this. And even though Tyler really doesn’t know enough to say either way, has no way of doing anything but trusting Wayne’s opinion, he draws himself up straighter and nods. 

Quick also gifts them with two jugs of water. “And I figured you guys could take whatever food you had left at the cabin.” 

“Sure,” Tyler says, even though that’s not much. 

“Let’s go pack that up.” He’s looking straight at Tyler, and it’s not really a suggestion. 

But in the kitchen, he offers no help. He just stands there, leaning against the doorframe and staring out the window. 

Tyler throws the more portable items – a few stray apples, half a loaf of bread, into the bag Quick provided. He eyes the rest of it, but decides it’s not worth the effort. They’ll have to rely on finding meals along the way. He straightens and turns to go, but Quick is still in the doorway, and he makes to move to stand aside. 

Quick’s not looking at Tyler. He’s looking down at his hands; he bothers the loose thread at the edge of one cuff. 

“Look,” Quick says, finally. “I don’t know why Dean Lombardi wants you at the Lake so bad.” He looks up, and his eyes are sharp on Tyler’s. “And I know you trust him, but Lombardi – he’s got plans, okay? He’s always had big plans, and he doesn’t let – I’m not sure there’s anything he wouldn’t sacrifice to see those plans through. So just – just know that, okay? Just watch yourself.” 

Tyler frowns back at him, trying to read any additional information out of the lines around Quick’s eyes, or the darkness of his look. “What do you mean?” 

Quick’s mouth opens, but closes again without adding anything more. “Nothing. Just – just keep that in mind.” 

Tyler watches him back. A whole lot of people, all the sudden, Tyler thinks, trying to convince him that they have his best interests at heart. Maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. What Tyler doesn’t understand, is _why_ – 

Outside a car door slams. 

Tyler grabs the bag and shoulders past Quick. 

Tanner and Wayne are on opposite sides of the car. Neither one of them is moving. Neither one of them is speaking, but clearly, Tyler thinks, something has just been said. Tanner is glaring, the set of his shoulders tight. 

Wayne watches him back, with a mild, matter of fact look. His gaze shifts from Tanner to Tyler, standing on the porch, and Tanner follows it, turning. He looks for just a moment like he’s going to say something, but his jaw works once and he stays silent. 

Wayne looks at both of them, placid expression still on his face. And then he pulls the door to the car open. “It’s time to go.” 

 

 

The first major river crossing comes an hour into their trip. In front of them, the river is on fire with the setting sun. The road swoops a long curl and then dips between the trees and suddenly the whole body of it is spread out before them, glistening orange water and the bridge crouching above it like a giant steel spider. 

Tanner is driving. He and Wayne are splitting the driving, and Wayne had suggested, his voice calm but firm, that Tanner take the first shift. Tanner hadn’t said anything, just slid into place behind the wheel, with his eyes fixed ahead. 

Now, Tanner slows approaching the bridge. Wayne, from the backseat, leans forward until his mouth’s almost at Tyler’s ear. “The Tappan Zee,” he says, and then he grins. “Sometimes it’s the ugliest dinosaurs that survive.” 

“It’s not ugly,” Tyler says. 

It’s not. In front of them, the steel beams are a broken mesh of black against the sky, backlit and glowing as the last of the sun dives for the trees. It’s crumbling in places, Tyler can see broken pieces of railing and the asphalt at the mouth of the bridge is chopped and gouged, but the whole thing skims the water like a giant seabird. It is a dinosaur, Tyler thinks. A relic of something we’ve lost. In its day it took our very best capabilities to build. And it’s something no one could build today. 

The rivets in the bridge surface make a regular _thunk-thunk_ as they cross. Out the window, Tyler can see the water below, and it looks so close, but so opaque. “It’s beautiful.” 

Wayne’s grin goes a little wider. “As contrary as ever, I see.” He reaches up to jostle Tyler’s shoulder. 

Tyler ducks his head and blushes. It probably sounds dumb: thinking a crumbling bridge is pretty. 

Wayne settles back against his seat. He must still be in a teasing mood, because he says, “Cooking. Bridge aesthetics. What else is new with you, Toffoli? You ever learn to sauce a pass, or you still strictly a sniper?” 

“Tyler had more assists than goals.” It’s Tanner that answers him, and even though Wayne’s voice had been light, Tanner’s is sharp. Tanner’s eyes flick between Wayne in the rearview mirror and the road. “This year and last.” 

Wayne doesn’t answer right away, and Tyler can see him staring back at Tanner, through the mirror, one of his eyebrows climbing. For a minute, it feels like all three of them are holding their breath. 

“Good to see someone’s keeping track,” Wayne says, dry. 

Tyler swallows – and the urge is there again, to reach out and lay a hand on Tanner’s shoulder. Let him know he’s close. It would be fine, probably. They’re friends. It’s an innocent enough gesture. 

Tyler thinks about what it would feel like, if Tanner shook him off. Tyler keeps his hands folded in his lap. 

Tanner doesn’t say anything else, and the silence is filled with nothing but the sound of the tires moving over the road. 

Wayne clears his throat. He gives them directions – _west, always west_ – and says, “Keep it as close to sixty as you can the whole way. Wake me if anything happens. Otherwise, wake me when we hit the border crossing into the Black  & Gold.” 

Tyler twists in his seat. “Will we know when we hit the border?” Some of the border crossings, especially the ones out in the middle of nowhere, are really small, and don’t look like much more than a normal checkpoint. 

“Trust me,” Wayne says. He’s already stretching himself out across the back seat. “You’ll know.” He settles himself with the practiced ease of someone used to sleeping when and where he can. Tyler watches him pull his hat down and tuck his chin to chest, head pillowed loosely in the crook of his arm. 

The landscape is fading around them, and Tanner squints against the dark. Tyler watches him search the dash for a moment before he finds the right knob and brings the headlights to life. The beams cut into the growing gloom, but there’s not much to see: they’re in a wooded stretch, and it’s just trees and an endless spool of gray pavement and the faded lines of the road. Tyler studies the car itself, but it’s just a car. He tries the radio, turning the volume down almost all the way in deference to Wayne, but he gets nothing but static. He listens to the fuzzy hum, and once or twice it sounds like there are voices hidden in the noise, but even when he concentrates, he can’t make out the words. 

So he studies Tanner instead. Looks at his profile from this half-familiar vantage. 

Last night, Tanner had held Tyler hard up against him, hands so tight around him that Tyler thought there might be bruises. He held Tyler while taking the quick, shallow breaths of something half-panicked. And Tyler hadn’t known what to say that might calm him. Hadn’t known what to do, aside from answering his question that wasn’t a question – you like _me_ – over and over again: “Yes. Yes. Yes.” 

They’d stayed so close Tyler could feel the wild flutter of Tanner’s heart, and there’d been an edge to the way he held onto Tyler, a desperation that was almost violence. 

Tyler had held himself very still within that grasp, and Tanner’s grip on him had eventually loosened, and his breathing had evened, although Tyler wasn’t sure if he ever actually slept. 

He woke Tyler in the early half-light of dawn, and he’d been softer then. Still sleep-warm, he had ushered Tyler out to the couch with light touches, and then stayed with him, perched on the edge of the cushion, one hand running through Tyler’s hair and one resting on his shoulder until Tyler fell back to sleep. Tyler watches those hands, now placed low on the wheel, almost in Tanner’s lap. Quiet and making only the smallest adjustments to steer them down the highway. He has a nice way of driving, Tyler decides. Not too fast, and not too slow. No sharp turns or stops. Just easy and steady as they speed through the dark. 

It’s very different from how they’d careened out of the ranger station. Although, Tyler remembers that Tanner hadn’t seemed upset then either, really. Just focused on getting them out, and calm when Tyler was afraid. Tyler remembers his face looming out of the dark, helping Tyler when he didn’t have to. Helping Tyler when he didn’t have a reason to. 

Even at the best of times, it’s hard to say what Tanner is thinking, or what he’s feeling – with all his masks, and his careful, chameleon echoing of other people, but Tyler hopes he knows. Tyler hopes he knows how much it means – that Tanner’s coming west with him, that Tanner’s trusting him, even though he didn’t want to leave, even though he doesn’t know Wayne or Dean like Tyler does, even though maybe Tanner’s never had people to watch out for him the way Wayne and Dean have watched out for Tyler. 

So it means everything that Tanner’s willing to go with him. And Tyler is going to watch out for him. Tyler is going to make sure they get there. Tyler’s going to make sure nothing happens to him. 

“You’re staring,” Tanner says, under his breath. His eyes don’t leave the road. 

Tyler looks down. “Sorry.” 

Tanner glances at him, quick and then away. 

Tyler runs a finger along the dash. “Just. You know.” It’s not like Tyler can just say all the things he’s been thinking. Can’t say: I’ve been thinking about how much I like you. How important you are. At least, not without sounding completely crazy. Tyler’s face colors a little. Maybe it’d be okay to sound a little crazy. “I like looking at you.” 

Tanner’s eyes dart automatic back to Wayne, who sleeps on oblivious in the back, then he fixes Tyler with a look. “Tyler.” He doesn’t sound annoyed, exactly. Maybe embarrassed. It’s too dark to tell if he’s blushing, but if Tyler reached over and touched his cheek, he thinks it might be warm. He glances again at Tyler, and then smiles and shakes his head. 

He’s lovely when he smiles. Tyler’s so lucky to get to see it. Tyler grins back at him. 

“C’mon. Knock it off.” Tanner’s hands twist on the wheel, and he casts another glance toward the backseat. 

Tyler follows his gaze. Wayne’s definitely asleep, so Tyler summons a bit more courage. “I’m just thinking about how I’m lucky to have you with me in all this.” 

Tanner laughs under his breath and rolls his eyes, and refuses to look at Tyler. 

“It really is going to be okay,” Tyler says, softer. 

Tanner’s smile fades. 

“We might find some of our teammates, some of the guys who went to LA, at the Lake,” Tyler offers. 

Tanner’s expression doesn’t change. The tightness in his shoulders doesn’t ease. 

“And Wayne’s really smart. And tough. If anybody can get us there, it’s him.” 

Tanner rubs a hand across his face; Tyler watches his throat bob. 

“I know you don’t know him. But he’s my friend. He’s – ” 

“That’s it exactly,” Tanner says, sharp, and then immediately looks sorry he said anything at all. 

Tyler frowns. “What is?” 

“He – ” Tanner stops again. He’s staring out at the road. “He’s your friend.” One hand lifts from the wheel to gesture. “He’s definitely going to get you to the Lake.” 

Tyler says, “He’s going to get both of us there.” 

Tanner doesn’t respond. 

Tyler says again, “Both of us are going to get there.” 

“Do you want to know what he said to me, earlier, when you were inside with Quick?” He keeps his eyes on the road. 

Tyler stops moving, all his attention redirected. “What did he say?” 

Tanner takes a deep breath. He looks over at Tyler for a second, then back out at the road. His palms slide up to the top of the wheel. “He said – he said, ‘I know why people like you hang around people like Tyler.’” 

Tyler’s thoughts come to a full stop. “He – what?” 

“That’s what he said.” 

“People like – that doesn’t – ” That doesn’t make any _sense._ People like Tanner have spent the last two years _hating_ Tyler for who he is, which is the least of it, really, because – “He doesn’t even know you.” 

Tanner makes a face. 

“What does he mean, ‘people like you’? Does he mean hockey players?” 

“He doesn’t mean hockey players.” Tanner’s face is dark. 

“Then I don’t understand – ” 

“He means I don’t have any money. Or family. Or any connections. He means I came from nothing and I have every reason in the world to want to latch onto you. Because you do have those things.” Tanner takes one hand off the wheel to rub his eyes. “He’s not wrong, either.” 

“What do you mean he’s not wrong?” It comes out louder than Tyler intended, and he glances toward the back. Wayne hasn’t moved. 

“No, I mean – ” Tanner winces. “That came out wrong.” He gestures at nothing, at the dark in front of them. “I mean he’s right about me, and it’s not unreasonable for him to think that.” 

Tyler doesn’t know what to say. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “He’s only known you for two days. You’ve barely talked to him.” 

Tanner shrugs. “You can pick up a lot about person in two days. If you’re paying attention.” 

“My family – my _connections_ – ” Tyler laughs, bitter taste in his mouth. His family’s connections are so destroyed they might as well be scorched earth. “Nobody should want to latch onto me.” 

“You’re still somebody special.” Tanner looks uncomfortable. 

That doesn’t sit well in Tyler’s stomach. “I don’t think I’m special. I haven’t done anything to be special.” 

Tanner lifts an eyebrow. His words come out very slow, very careful, “Dean Lombardi’s looking for you. Dean Lombardi sent someone to bring you somewhere safe.” 

The sick, queasy feeling inside him is growing. “I guess.” He looks outside, but it’s too dark. There’s nothing to look at. “But.” Tyler’s throat is tight. He doesn’t want to ask, and he has to ask all the same. “But you’re – you’re coming with me because you like me? Right?” 

“Ty.” 

Tyler is so incredibly pathetic. “Right?” 

Tanner checks the rearview mirror once more, and then reaches out, takes Tyler’s hand and draws it back towards him, lacing their fingers together. “Yes,” he says. 

Tyler looks down at their linked hands, resting on Tanner’s thigh. Tanner’s thumb strokes across his knuckles, and the tightness in Tyler’s chest eases, just a little bit. There’s no sound but the hum and rush of the car moving beneath and around them, and the even pattern of Tanner breathing. The air is cool on Tyler’s skin, and Tanner’s hand is warm clasped around his. 

Tyler swallows. “Wayne’s just – Wayne’s just trying to look out for me.” 

Tanner doesn’t look any happier, but he doesn’t let go of Tyler’s hand. 

“Wayne’s the one who taught me how to play.” Tyler closes his eyes and keeps his voice low. “My dad and Dean taught me how to skate. But Wayne’s the one who really taught me how to play.” And with his eyes closed it’s easy to see Wayne cutting across the ice, gangly like he was back then, clad in his mishmash of hand-me-down gear, but so fast, and so focused. “Wayne was the best skater who came to the rink in Scarborough. He kind of ran things. Everybody I played with was older, so most of them were more interested knocking me around than teaching me anything.” 

Tanner’s hand tightens on his. “They pushed you around?” 

Tyler opens his eyes. He can still feel how much he wanted to play, how he burned with it. And the way his heart pounded, every time, even just stepping onto the ice. 

Tanner’s looking right at him; the car is drifting. “They hurt you?” 

“Watch the road.” 

Tanner glances back and course corrects, but he’s still watching Tyler out of the corner of his eye. 

Tyler shrugs. It wasn’t ever that bad – because of Wayne, and that was the whole point of bringing all this up. “Wayne watched out for me. Wayne was the one who made them let me play.” It’s important that Tanner get this. That he understand why Wayne’s so important. “He took care of me.” 

For a moment, Tanner is quiet, and then he nods, like something’s been settled. “Good.” 

 

 

Even with Wayne’s assurances in the back of his mind, Tyler keeps his eyes peeled for the border crossing. They’re in the middle of nowhere: nothing but trees and hills for hours now. They see lights in the distance sometimes, but nothing ever comes close. Some of the smaller border crossings they went through with the Monarchs were really nothing more than a crossing rail that spanned the road with a guardhouse next to it, and the Union soldier inside usually armed with nothing scarier than a card reader. 

They passed the crossing from the Red & Blue into the Orange over an hour ago, and while it had been bigger than some of those bare bones set ups, it wasn’t by much. In any case, the rail had been smashed and knocked askew, the guardhouse burned. The Orange isn’t _that_ big, so Tyler scans the darkness unfolding in front of them, on alert for any sign of a crossing. 

The checkpoint from the Orange to the Black  & Gold turns out to be impossible to miss. 

The road abruptly narrows and great cement embankments rise out of the nothing on either side. The walls of this cement canyon are notched with battlements, where traffic can be watched from above. The further they go, the more the road narrows, hemming them in like a cattle in a chute. Speed bumps jar the car even though Tanner has slowed to a crawl. Wayne gets shaken into wakefulness before Tyler has a chance to stir him. 

Wayne sits up and squints out at the dark. “Oh, Twenty Mile. My old friend.” He yawns and stretches. As they roll towards the border crossing itself, Tanner slows even further. Wayne points towards the side of the road. “Pull over there.” 

The air outside is cold, colder than it was in the car and heavy with moisture – not quite rain, but enough to feel instantly damp. It feels strange to be stopped after so long in motion, and Tyler can still feel the buzz of the road in his bones. He stretches and cranes his neck. The tops of the walls are lost in curling mist. 

“How are we doing on gas?” Wayne asks. 

Tanner climbs out of the driver’s seat. “It’s almost empty.” 

“We’ll fill it up here. Take a piss, stretch, whatever else you need to do. The fewer stops we have to make before Cincy, the better.” Wayne pops the hood of the car, checking over its inner workings. 

He straightens and wipes his hands on his jeans. 

Tanner says, “I’ll fill the tank.” He walks back towards the trunk, eyeing the cement fortress in front of them as he goes. His footsteps through the gravel are loud in the stillness. 

Tyler helps him empty the gas can into the tank. When that’s done, Tanner tips his head towards the shoulder of the road. “I’m gonna – ” 

Tyler looks away to give him some privacy. He studies the crossing instead. Just before the border, the road widens again to four lanes, and each of these passes through it’s own low, enclosed tunnel. There are red and green stoplights at the mouth of each tunnel, although these are now lifeless and dark. The words painted across the entrance are still a screaming bright black and yellow: 

HALT. PREPARE TO SHOW DOCUMENTS. 

Above that, the walls are laced with coils and coils of barbed wire, and above that watchful towers stare down at the empty lanes. It’s huge. Besides the arenas, it might be the biggest building Tyler’s seen outside of Toronto. Strange for it to be here, in the middle of nowhere, dropped into the middle of this forest, where the air is heavy with pine and the loudest sound is an invisible chorus of cicadas. Tyler wanders closer to the wall and reaches out a hand to touch the cement: cold. Damp. But in good condition. Unlike most of the places they’ve passed through, there’s no graffiti. No burn marks or signs of destruction. 

Wayne comes over to join him. “Twenty Mile Road Checkpoint. We used to call it the Twenty Year Wait Checkpoint because it always took so long to get through.” He looks around and grins. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem right now.” 

“Do we have to stay long?” The damp chill is starting to sink into Tyler’s bones. And this whole place is frightening. It feels like it’s sleeping, rather than dead, and could roar to life again at any second, its gates like a trap, waiting to spring shut. 

“No. But let’s go take a look at the crossing.” Wayne’s got a flashlight in his hand and he starts walking towards the mouth of the nearest tunnel. 

Tyler follows him. 

Wayne uses the beam to highlight a panel to the side. “You recognize that, right?” 

“That’s a card reader.” Tyler touches his now-naked throat, remembering his father placing the tags around his neck, and how it felt to take them off, and how they looked the last time he’d seen them: hanging from a nail in Manchester, glinting in the sun. 

“Yep.” Wayne swings the flashlight to point out another screen just beyond it. “And that’s the infrared scanner.” He looks over his shoulder at Tyler. “To catch the people not wearing tags.” He taps the screen, which stays dark as he walks past. “Nobody minding the till today, though.” 

Inside the tunnel, Wayne crouches to study the ground. He sweeps the flashlight across it, and embedded in the asphalt is a row of retractable steel spikes, pointed towards oncoming traffic. Designed, Tyler imagines, to shred the tires of anyone who tried to drive across without first receiving permission. Wayne reaches out with the toe of his boot and very carefully prods it. The spikes don’t move. “Locked,” he says, and looks up towards the watchtowers. “Probably controlled from way up there.” He makes a face and rolls his eyes. “Just like everything else of use.” 

Tyler watches him. Wayne keeps his eyes fixed on the tower, it’s peak lost in the fog. He tosses the flashlight in the air, so it flips, end over end, and catches it without looking. Once, and then again. And then he catches it and holds it, and looks at Tyler, frowning. “Let’s go see if anybody else has been by, first. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” 

The second tunnel they walk into looks exactly like the first, but in the third, bits of rubble and rock have been piled atop the spikes, burying them enough to make them passable. Which means, Tyler thinks, people have been here. People have passed through here, but the place is still mostly untouched. They left in a hurry then. Maybe they were afraid. 

Wayne inspects the work, judging how far and how thoroughly the spikes have been buried and then turning his attention to the ceiling, giving it a sharp, thoughtful look. “I bet we’ll clear it,” he says. He smiles. 

“We better,” Tyler says. Tyler would like to leave. 

Wayne grins wider and turns to go back to the car, putting a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go collect the third amigo.” 

Tanner is waiting for them at the car. He has the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, and his hands are hidden in his sleeves. He watches them approach. 

“Good work getting us this far,” Wayne says. Tyler listens close for any animosity in his voice, but he finds none. 

Tanner shrugs. “Sure.” He holds out the keys to Wayne. 

“You can pass out in the back.” Wayne tells him. Then he looks at Tyler. “In exchange for not having to drive, you have to stay up and make sure I don’t fall asleep. Got it?” He punches Tyler’s shoulder lightly. 

Tyler nods and walks back around to the passenger door. He pauses, fingers on the handle, breathes in the dark stillness of the place. One last breath of evergreen and the stars winking between the clouds overhead. He climbs in, and Wayne puts the car back in motion. Tyler holds his breath as they enter the tunnel, but the car climbs over the jury-rigged speed bump without incident. 

Tyler twists in his seat to watch the border fortress recede into the distance behind them, sound of the loose gravel still pinging in the wheel wells. 

“Goodbye, Orange.” Wayne lifts a hand in a mocking wave. “Hello, Black & Gold.” 

Almost everything Tyler knows about the Orange he learned from Dean and the years Dean spent working there. He knows it was run by a man named Ed Snider, who even though Dean never said much on the subject, didn’t seems like a particularly easy man to get along with. Tyler met him a handful of times, usually at parties, and he can still remember his tall, gaunt frame. His thick, black eyebrows and that meticulously parted white hair. 

Tyler met Mario Lemieux, who ran the Black & Gold, exactly once. Dean had just started working for the Orange, and he had traveled with them for their game against the Blue & White. He had dinner the night before with Tyler and his parents, of course, and had mentioned, rather off hand, that maybe Tyler could watch the game with him, from the press box. 

“Please,” Tyler said, making eyes at his mother. _“Please.”_

She frowned. “Dean, you’ll be working. Is this really the best idea?” 

“I’ll be quiet.” Tyler was determined not to let this opportunity slip by. “I won’t ask any questions. I’m not little, you don’t have to watch me.” Tyler must have been around ten. Maybe eleven. “Please?” Tyler had looked at his father, who looked at his mother, who looked at Dean. 

“If you’re sure,” she said. 

Tyler vibrated with excitement the whole rest of the evening, and all through the next day. He’d been to plenty of games with his dad, and knew what the game looked like from pretty much every vantage point, from the glass to the suites. But the press box was where people _worked_. People who worked in hockey sat there. People who were part of the game sat there. Depending on who was scratched, _actual players_ might be sitting there. 

Dean had taken him up early, and showed him where they were going to sit. And as people started to filter in – all men, all in suits – one of them came over to Dean. He was very tall, and broad, and had the stiff gait that Tyler recognized as common to former players. “Dean,” he said. “Good to see you again.” 

Dean was standing just behind Tyler. “Always a pleasure.” 

The man said, “Are you allowed to say that, now that you’re working for Ed?” 

Dean didn’t answer, just smiled back at him, his expression tight. 

“And who is this?” The man nodded at Tyler. 

Dean rested a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “This is Tyler Toffoli. Tyler, this is Mario Lemieux.” 

Tyler’s eyes got very big, but he managed a nearly-inaudible, _pleasure to meet you, sir._

Lemieux just nodded and looked back at Dean. “Toffoli – as in the architect?” 

“His son,” Dean answered. 

“Ah.” He looked at Tyler with slightly more focus. “So you like hockey, young Toffoli?” 

Dean’s hand tightened on Tyler’s shoulder, to the point where it almost hurt. Tyler nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Lemieux’s mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “We need more intelligent men in hockey. Such a dearth these days.” He gave Dean a pointed look. And then his gaze lowered to Tyler, flat and cold in a way that made Tyler want to shrink back against Dean. “Enjoy the game.” 

After Lemieux had turned and walked away, Tyler asked Dean, “Does he not want me here?” 

“It’s not his barn. It doesn’t matter what he wants.” Dean’s tone was sharp enough to make Tyler’s shoulders curl, made him want to disappear down into his seat. Dean’s voice softened. “It has nothing to do with you,” he said. “He doesn’t like Ed Snider, and by extension that means he doesn’t like me.” 

“Oh.” Tyler had had any number of squabbling arguments with Cynthia and his other classmates, and he scuffled near-constantly with some of the guys at the rink. But this – the people involved were _adults_ – this was new. “Why doesn’t he like Ed Snider?” 

“Philosophical differences,” Dean said shortly. 

Tyler looked up at him and frowned. “What do you mean by – ” 

Dean narrowed his eyes. “I thought you promised you’d be quiet?” 

Tyler glowered at him, but although Dean’s mouth quirked in response, he didn’t elaborate. He just nodded down at the ice. “Warm ups are starting.” And that was the end of that. 

As Tyler watches, the border crossing grows smaller behind them. Tanner’s watching too, and when it’s finally lost to the dark, he turns and looks at Tyler instead. 

Tyler smiles at him. 

“Get some rest,” Wayne says. He’s looking at Tanner through the rearview mirror. “We’ve got at least another six hours.” 

Tanner’s eyes hold Tyler’s for another second before he answers. “Sure.” 

Tyler watches him stretch out the best he can in the back seat, folding his hoodie into a makeshift pillow, and closing his eyes. 

Maybe it would have been easier, Tyler thinks. To divide the country up into pieces, than try to make people like Snider and Lemieux get along. “Good fences,” his father used to say, “make good neighbors.” And now that’s all that’s left: a monument to hatred that outlasted them both. 

Tyler looks one last time out the back window, but the border has disappeared from view. He turns back around in his seat, looking at Wayne instead. “Is that border crossing so fortified because of how much Snider and Lemieux hated each other?” 

Wayne’s eyebrows go up. “Sounds like you know more about it than I do.” He shifts in his seat. “I just know we hated them on the ice. And they didn’t much like us, either, that’s for sure.” 

In a way, it must have been fun: to have a team you hated above all others. Something to measure yourself against. As the miles roll past, Tyler thinks about each of the teams they played, running through their strengths, their players and coaches. Thinking about Manchester’s losses still stings a little, even though it doesn’t matter, maybe it never mattered, and it’s ridiculous to care. Tyler shrugs. “We didn’t really have a rivalry. We were just better than everyone.” 

Wayne snorts. “So humble.” 

“Well.” Tyler’s just being honest. “We were.” But, of course, that’s not all of it. “I mean – it’s not – it wasn’t like we were just better at hockey. Part of it was Dean. He took care of us. The other teams we played didn’t always have everything they needed, but we did. Because Dean took care of it.” 

Wayne doesn’t say anything for a minute, and when he does speak, he just says, “Lombardi keeps a close eye on his people.” 

“Yeah.” 

Wayne shifts. “He kept a really close eye on you, I imagine.” 

Tyler hesitates. He thinks about Dean in Manchester. The conversation after his first fight with Tanner, and how Tyler’d felt half-bewildered, half-furious, and Dean’s gray eyes steady on him the whole time. “I didn’t really realize – until Tanner pointed it out, I guess – that he treated me any different. But I guess he did.” 

Wayne’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. “You play on a line with Tanner?” 

“Yeah.” Tyler can feel the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. They’d been really good, too. Even though there’d been a time when Tyler would rather die than admit that, they’d always been really good. 

Wayne shakes his head. “You can always pick out lineys.” 

Tyler ducks his head, even if it’s probably too dark for Wayne to make out his blush. He glances behind him again, at Tanner stretched across the backseat, eyes closed. 

Wayne clears his throat. “So – you and Tanner talked about Dean?” 

Tyler frowns. “I mean – not, like, a lot. But, some. I guess.” 

“Did he – ” Wayne’s hands are doing that thing where they refuse to settle, where they twist, restless over the steering wheel, and even within the confines of his seat, he’s shifting. “Did he ask you for favors from Dean? Or did he ask about Dean and your family – ” 

Watching his hands, Tyler frowns. “No.” It comes out more heated than Tyler intended. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. It wasn’t like that.” 

Wayne glances at him and hesitates. “I’m glad you had somebody with you. Getting out of Manchester, getting to Quickie, all of it. It can’t have been easy.” He takes a breath, fingers still moving on the wheel. “I’m just – I’m trying to make sure – Tyler, your family had a lot of resources. And – I know you trust him, but some people might want to take advantage of that. That’s all I’m trying to say.” 

Wayne might be his friend, but Wayne’s been gone. Wayne _left._ Tyler’s blood pounds hot under his skin, tight curl of a snarl in his throat. “It’s not like that,” Tyler says again. He can feel something building in his chest, rushing up fast and inevitable, like a rising tide. He lifts his chin. “We’re in love.” 

The silence after seems very loud. 

The line of Wayne’s shoulders is stiff. His hands have stopped moving. 

Tyler presses his lips together, like that might keep anything else from escaping. He has no idea why he said that. It’s not something that he or Tanner has ever said. Tyler’s never even said it inside his own head. Certainly not out loud, and it’s not something he’d dream about saying in front of someone else – 

Well, not those words, exactly. 

But to add to that, Tyler doesn’t for a second believe that Tanner’s actually asleep in the back seat. Tyler doesn’t dare look behind him. Who knows what Tanner’s thinking. He probably thinks Tyler is crazy. What if now he doesn’t want – Tyler’s throat goes dry. He can’t even look at Wayne. He keeps his eyes pinned on the road ahead of them, and his jaw clamped shut. 

It feels like a lot of miles pass before Wayne says anything. It feels like hours. 

Wayne starts speaking, slowly, after what feels like an impossible amount of time. “The Lake will be a good place for you. The Lake is run by Mike Richards. The Lake – ” He trails off and starts again. “There are bunch of groups that have sprung up. Organized communities and pockets of resistance. Lombardi’s real strength was in convincing all those different groups of angry people to go in one direction.” Wayne pauses. “Of course, not everybody’s happy with the idea of player-led governments. Some people thought hockey players moved too fast. Or too slow. That’s why we’re not going through Chicago. They have all kinds of angry people there, and – ” He stops. He glances at Tyler. “I’m rambling. What I’m trying to say is, that Mike. He’s – like that, and, it’ll be a good place for you.” 

Tyler has no idea how any of that makes Mike Richards like him in any way at all. He stares at Wayne. “What?” 

Wayne looks uncomfortable. He gestures vaguely at the windshield. “He’s – he and Carter are – ” 

Tyler watches his hand, trying to discern some meaning from its twisting movements. Trying to stay focused, because what Wayne seems to be saying seems utterly impossible. _He and Carter are –_

Oh. Tyler sits back with a thump. “Wait, _Jeff_ Carter?” 

Wayne nods. 

“And they – ” Tyler stops again. The world is an entirely different place than it was five minutes ago. “They – ” 

“Queer. That’s what some people call it.” Wayne coughs. “That’s a nicer name for it, anyway.” 

Tyler knows a dozen names for it. Tyler has heard plenty of the less-nice names for men who get fucked. But that’s not – that’s not even the most unbelievable part. “No, but – people _know_?” 

Wayne shrugs again. “Sure. I mean – not everybody’s a fan, but Mike’s made it pretty clear anybody who has a real problem with it can get the fuck out.” 

Tyler can’t think of a single thing to say. 

“You look like somebody hit you upside the head,” Wayne says. 

“I – ” Tyler shakes his head. 

Wayne smiles. He reaches out to rest a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “It’s a whole, big world out there, Tyler.” 

 

 

They reach Cincinnati with the first light of the rising sun. 

They swapped out drivers once more during the night. Wayne had rolled the windows down the last few miles of his shift, using the cold air to keep himself awake. They finally pulled over in the inky dark of a flat, lightless stretch. Tyler could hardly make out anything beyond the beam of the headlights, but he could hear the rustle and shushing noises of the wind through tall grass. Tyler moved to the back, and Tanner slipped past him on his way to the driver’s seat, and when they passed each other, his eyes had caught on Tyler’s eyes. Tyler wanted to say a million different things, but he wasn’t sure what any of them were, or if this was the time to say them. 

In the back, he had listened to the murmur of Wayne and Tanner’s voices, and he meant to stay awake – meant to listen to what they had to say to each other, but in the dark, with the car humming all around, he’d slipped into sleep almost instantly. 

Tyler woke to their arrival in the city, coming in on a highway that skirted the river. And it was like they’d driven through the night to an entirely different world – somewhere untouched. The buildings still had glass in the windows, their towers were still upright and stretched towards the sky. There were people on the sidewalks and cars on the streets, not many, but enough to mimic the movements and noises of a real city and normal life. Tyler ran his tongue around his sour mouth and watched the buildings of that skyline grow closer. 

Wayne directs Tanner off the highway, following directions on a piece of paper he pulls from his shirt pocket. They park on a side street. The houses are tall and narrow and close together. Wayne’s directions send them to the end of a cul-de-sac, a house with a weedy yard, and cars up on blocks out front. Tanner kills the engine. He sits back and taps gas gauge. “Cutting it close.” 

They sit for a moment, listening to the engine tick. The hum of the road feels etched into Tyler’s bones; his eyes are gritty with the wrong amount of sleep. 

Wayne twists, reaches into the back for his bag. He takes out a clean shirt, studying the fabric and making a face at the wrinkles. He gives it a rough shake before pulling it on. He takes his cap off and runs a hand across his hair. Then he turns to look at both of them, tips his head towards the house they’re parked in front of, and climbs out of the car. 

Tanner is the last to emerge from the car, moving slow and cautious. His eyes dart from the porch in the house in front of them to its neighbors, to Wayne, to Tyler. 

It does feel strange – to be among so many people again. Tyler can hear cars in the distance. And the houses are packed in tight here. He looks at the stiff way Tanner’s holding himself, how he hasn’t strayed far from the car. Tanner probably thinks it’s all pretty strange, too. 

Tyler risks a hand to his shoulder, and Tanner jumps, his eyes wide and startled. Stiff, and for a moment, Tyler doesn’t know what he’s going to do. But he edges closer to Tyler; he leans into Tyler’s touch. 

They haven’t – there hasn’t been any time to talk, no privacy to ask Tanner what he heard, or what he’s thinking, or how he feels about anything. Tyler would give a lot for just a moment alone with him, just the opportunity to ask, _are you – are we okay?_

Tanner looks at him, and his eyes still look like they did in the middle of the night, in that unlit field: fixed on Tyler’s, and like he has a lot of things he wants to say. 

Tyler gives him a tight smile. He looks to Wayne. 

Wayne is facing the house they’re parked in front of. Tyler looks up and there’s a man on the porch, seated in a rocking chair. His hair is gray, and Tyler can see grease stains on his clothes. His hands, thickened knuckles and covered in liver spots, rest in his lap. 

He doesn’t stand when they approach, but his eyes track them. 

“Good morning,” Wayne calls. 

“Good morning,” the man says. His eyes are on Tyler and Tanner. Tyler feels self-conscious, he runs a hand over his shirt, bedraggled and wrinkled after the hours on the road. The man stays focused on Tyler, and Tyler gets a flash of worry, that as unlikely as it is, he’s somehow been recognized as his father’s son. 

But there’s no recognition in the man’s gaze. He is, though, clearly addressing Tyler, and the direction is so clear that Tyler frowns, half-turns, thinking there must be someone else behind them. But it’s still just Tanner at his side, his eyes fixed on the ground, and otherwise the street behind them is empty. 

Tyler looks to Wayne. 

“We’re looking to buy gas,” Wayne says. His voice is cool. His face has a very careful, neutral expression. 

“I sell just about everything,” the man says. But he says it to Tyler, as if Tyler were the one who spoke. “Sell it to everybody for the same price. That’s what people like about me. Same price. Keep to the middle of the road. Kept me alive this long.” 

Tyler darts another look at Wayne, whose gaze is pinned straight ahead. 

Tyler frowns. Tyler has no idea what he’s supposed to do. Is he just supposed to start talking back to this man like he can’t see Wayne either? And why isn’t Wayne saying anything? If this asshole were being that rude to Tyler, Tyler would jump up and down and tell him to _fuck off_ and _make_ him pay attention. Tyler takes a breath. If Wayne’s not going to yell, he is. “Look – ” 

“We have money,” Wayne cuts him off, in a voice that’s almost a monotone. He draws gold and one of the silver coins from his pocket, holding it up to let it wink in the early sun. 

For the first time, the man looks at Wayne. “So you do.” 

The line of Wayne’s mouth turns up, a bitter edge to his smile. He comes close enough to the porch to flip one of the shield-stamped coins through the air. 

The man catches it. Reaching out quick to snag it from the air. The silver lands flat across his palm. He studies the coin, turning it over in his fingers. When he raises his eyes again, there’s something sharper in his look. “Sam,” he yells. 

For a moment there’s nothing, and then a boy emerges from the house, hinges of the screen door catching and squalling behind him. The kid’s wearing an old jersey that must have been red once, but has since faded to a dusty pink. _Cyclones_ , it reads, although too much of the paint has worn away and too much of the threading has come loose to make out the logo. 

The man says, “Tell Dave we need gas.” He doesn’t look at the boy. He just keeps looking at the coin in his hand. 

The kid takes off without a word – hopping down the porch steps and hustling across the yard. Tyler watches until he turns the corner and disappears from view. 

“We can get you what you need. Probably,” the man says. “Where you headed?” 

Wayne’s face stays flat. “North.” 

He watches Wayne for a moment longer before shrugging. “Gonna take Sam a few minutes to track him down. Anything else we can help you with?” 

“You have food?” Wayne asks. 

“I can sell you food.” 

Wayne smiles, a sarcastic half-lift. “And water?” 

“That I’ll throw in for free.” He nods towards the side yard. “Hose in the back.” 

Wayne turns. He looks at Tyler, and Tanner standing behind him. 

Tyler wants to leave. He wants to say, “Why are we giving this man money?” But Wayne’s face very clearly says, _not now._

“Fill up the water jugs?” Wayne asks. 

Tyler nods. Both of the big, plastic water jugs, are nearly empty. Tanner walks to the car without a word and pops the hood and uses the last of their water to top off the radiator. When he closes the hood, he looks at Tyler. “Can you – ” He nods at the other jug. 

Tyler hesitates. He doesn’t much like the idea of leaving Wayne alone to deal with this guy. But also, those are the first words Tanner’s spoken to him in hours, and this might be Tyler’s chance to fix things. Wayne’s not paying him any attention. Tyler grabs the other jug. “Yeah.” He follows Tanner around to the side yard, in the direction the man pointed. 

It’s cooler, once they step into the shade. There’s a spigot jutting out of the side of the house, a short length of hose attached. Tanner turns on the faucet, he passes the end of the hose off to Tyler without meeting Tyler’s eyes. 

Tyler listens to the rattle of the pipes as the water starts to flow. The threads of the hose are worn, and spray leaks out, wetting the grass at their feet, an increasing fall of drops as Tanner turns the spigot again. Tyler leans in closer and clears his throat. “I want to talk to you. I know we need to talk.” 

Tanner doesn’t move, hand still on the spigot, head still bent. 

“In the car,” Tyler starts. “When I said – ” 

Tanner grabs him. Both of his hands fisting in Tyler’s shirt, moving fast enough to startle him, and enough force to put Tyler up against the side of the house. Their scramble tips the jug at their feet, sends the water sloshing to the ground. Tyler’s feet slip but Tanner catches him, holds him hard against the siding. His cheeks are red like he’s angry, his eyes wide. His hands twist in again Tyler’s shirt, like he’s getting ready to shake Tyler, or like – 

Tyler closes his eyes. Braces for the hit. 

He can hear Tanner breathing – a fast, hard rasp. 

Tanner kisses him. There, in the yard, in the shadow of the house, with the neighboring buildings looming so close. Presses his mouth to Tyler’s so hard it stings. His hands still in Tyler’s shirt, and Tyler still pinned in place. 

He opens his mouth to Tanner’s, like that might make him soften. He moves one hand to the nape of Tanner’s neck. In the other, he’s still holding the hose, water running freely onto the ground now. He can feel it running over his hand, soaking the cuff of his sleeve, and he lets it slip from between his fingers. 

Tanner breaks away panting, breathing too quick. His forehead presses to Tyler’s. He cups Tyler’s face in his hands. “I need,” he says. “I need – ” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He closes his eyes and leans against Tyler, his whole body going slack, all at once. All his weight on Tyler. 

Tyler holds him in a careful grip, and it’s cold in the shade, but Tanner’s skin is hot where it touches his. Tyler says, “I had to. I had to say something.” His throat is tight and it makes the words sound uncertain, uneven. “I didn’t know how to say it better than that.” 

Tanner lifts his head to look at him, his lips parted, his cheeks blotchy and red. Close enough for Tyler to feel the rise and fall of his chest, and then his mouth finds Tyler’s again. He presses Tyler back again, pushing him hard enough Tyler’s going to bruise, although that doesn’t matter, nothing matters – 

Nothing except Tanner – far from anywhere he’s ever been and anyone he knows, and nothing but his faith in Tyler to convince him he’ll get to somewhere safe. Tyler’s heart races high and hard in his chest. He wraps both arms around Tanner. He pulls him in. 

Tanner’s grip won’t settle, hands on Tyler’s chest then his shoulders then his waist. He buries his face in Tyler’s neck, and a noise welling up from his throat that’s just at the edge of audible, the moan of something hurt, feverish and aching. 

Something shakes loose in Tyler’s chest, and he needs to soothe, needs to protect Tanner more than he needs air. 

“Hey.” Tyler runs a careful hand over Tanner’s face. Tyler’s hands are wet, his sleeve is wet. Tanner’s feels hot under his fingertips. He can feel Tanner trying to slow his breathing, taking gulping breaths of air. Tyler holds his sleeve to Tanner’s cheek, like a compress for a fever. “Hey.” 

Tanner pulls back. He’s still flushed, eyes still closed. He plants both hands against the siding, one to either side of Tyler’s head, caging him in. 

“I brought the gas.” 

Tyler startles – the voice is coming from the front of yard. The kid in the red jersey is back, standing just a few yards away and watching them. Tyler gets a pulse of fear, and then a rush of anger at the weight that fear makes in his chest, angry that he has to worry for even one single second about who might be watching. 

The kid repeats, “I brought the gas.” He has a slow, cow-eyed look, and his voice is betrays no curiosity or surprise at all. He doesn’t even look at the overturned water jug on the ground, at the hose still spilling at their feet. 

Tanner is slow to straighten, blinking at the kid like he’d forgotten there were other people around at all. Tyler watches him swallow. “Great,” Tanner says, unsteady, like he’s still finding his voice. “Thanks.” 

Tyler clears his throat, but his voice still comes out rough. “Tell our friend we’ll just be a minute?” 

The kid nods, hesitates just a beat longer, and then disappears back around the side of the house. 

Tyler bends down stiffly and rights the jug. He moves the hose back into place to fill it, and he can feel Tanner’s eyes on him the whole time. 

If they stand just so, with their bodies carefully angled, Tyler can hold Tanner’s hand, out of sight of anyone on the street, and protected from the view of the houses around them. He watches the water level rise – they have just a few seconds before they’ll be missed. Just a few seconds before they have to move on. He catches hold, tangles his fingers with Tanner’s, and tries to make his grip a promise. And for now, that has to be enough. 

 

 

When they return to the car, Wayne is loading a bag of what Tyler assumes must be food into it. He gives the bag a shove and straightens. “We’re gonna eat on the road. Sorry.” He doesn’t sound particularly sorry, but Tyler’s not sorry, either. Tyler’s happy to leave this place and it’s claustrophobic tightness and it’s rude old men behind. He nods at Wayne and turns to Tanner. 

Tanner looks like his thoughts are somewhere far away. It takes him a moment to realize Tyler and Wayne are looking at him, waiting for him to weigh in. He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “Fine with me.” 

Tyler hoists the water jugs into the trunk. He can feel the man on the porch watching him, a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades. 

“That it?” Wayne asks. 

Tyler nods. 

“Good,” Wayne sounds relieved. “Let’s go.” 

“You said you were going north?” The man stands, walks to the edge of his porch to look down at them. 

Wayne barely glances at him, his body already turning, already moving to climb into the driver’s seat. “Yeah.” 

The man smiles, tips his head. “Hope you weren’t planning on heading over the bridge.” 

Wayne freezes. Tyler watches him take a slow, deliberate breath before he turns to look the man full in the face. “Why’s that?” 

“Bridge is out.” The man smiles, like it’s funny. “Bridge is gone.” 

“Since when?” Wayne’s voice is flat. 

“Since last night. News came in just a few hours ahead of you.” He makes an exploding gesture with his hands. _“Boom.”_ He grins the whole time. “Union figured the ease of crossing wasn’t worth the ants scurrying in and out their picnic basket, I guess.” 

“You didn’t think to mention it until now?” Wayne sounds irritated. 

He spreads his hands. “You didn’t say where you were going.” 

Wayne takes another breath. He looks down for a beat and then back up. “Who brought the word in?” 

“Came down from what’s left of the Grand Rapids boys. No reason for them to lie, at least not to me.” His toothy grin goes wider. “So. Can you swim?” 

 

 

Wayne drives them to the edge of the neighborhood, irritation evident in his quick, jerky steering, his foot heavy on the gas. Tyler doesn’t ask where they’re going, doesn’t get a chance to, because they don’t go far before Wayne pulls over, jerking the wheel and bringing the car to a sudden halt on the shoulder of the road. His eyes are fixed forward, his body held tense. He bounces his fist off the steering wheel, a sudden, sharp gesture that makes Tyler jump. 

Tyler looks at Wayne, at the way his jaw is working back and forth. “That guy was an asshole,” he offers. 

Wayne’s face stills. He looks at Tyler. “That guy is the least of our problems.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “If he’s right – ” Wayne breaks off, gets out of the car without another word. 

Tyler and Tanner scramble to follow him. 

Wayne pulls a map out of the truck and then slams the truck shut again and spreads the map flat. He points so that both of them can see. “Here’s where the bridge is – or was. We don’t have enough gas to go all the way up there, turn around and then come back if we don’t make it across to Sault Ste. Marie. And there’s not much up there. Just a bunch of trees and a real long walk back.” 

Tyler asks, “What are our other options?” 

Wayne’s finger slides south and west. “The other option is we go through Chicago. Then up through the Red & Green, and to the Lake of the Woods that way.” 

“Before,” Tyler says carefully, “you didn’t want to go through Chicago.” 

“I still don’t want to go through Chicago.” Wayne frowns. “It’s a big city. It’s unstable. And we don’t have anyone in there. We don’t know what the situation is. That last time I heard anything, the Union was holding the northern part of the city, the Red had been pushed to the western outskirts, and the south was fair game for everyone else. The branch of the Union force is pretty isolated out here, so there won’t be a lot of them. But that makes them meaner. Resistance forces out here are meaner, too. If we get into trouble in Chicago, I won’t have any favors to call in.” He hesitates. “But – if we get through clean, it could be faster.” 

Tyler looks at Tanner. Tanner looks back at him, expectant, like he thinks Tyler will know what to do. 

Tyler has no idea what to do. But they’ve been lost in the woods before; it’s not something Tyler’s eager to repeat. If they get into trouble in Chicago, at least there would be people around. If they get into trouble up in the north woods, there would just be – nothing. 

“Chicago,” Tyler says. “I think we should go through Chicago.” 

 

 

What thin traffic there is on the roads of Cincinnati disappears entirely as they work their way north. The road empties in front of them. Someone has spray painted across the westbound highway sign at the edge of town. The dripping letters read, _Good Luck_. 

Even the pavement gets worse, choppy and rutted as they head north and west. Wayne’s hands tighten on the wheel, and car goes quiet as their progress slows to a crawl. They stop outside a place called Egypt, top off the car with gas and eat sandwiches under a sun that has peaked and is now crawling towards the western horizon. 

Wayne eats without looking at the food in his hands, with a quick, robotic efficiency. His eyes stay on the northern horizon. He’d dismissed Tanner’s earlier offer to drive. “Maybe a hundred miles or so, and we’ll be in the worst of it. I don’t want to stop until we’re through.” He looks down, at their shadows, starting to edge their way back into existence on the asphalt. “Whatever you have to do, do it now.” 

Tyler has to push every bite past a lump in his throat. He leans his knee against Tanner’s, both of them sitting on the cement berm on the side of the road. In front of them, the steel towers that once held power lines are warped and bent. There’s a rail line that parallels the road, and Tyler can see a line of boxcars, half derailed: the first flat on the ground, the last still upright and the ones in between forming a twisted helix. Tyler watches Tanner’s eyes move across their wrecked forms. He watches Tanner follow Wayne’s gaze, to the jagged, rising skyline in the north. 

Tyler rests his hand over the back of Tanner’s. 

Tanner looks over. He gives Tyler the hint of a smile, turns his hand over, matching his palm to Tyler’s. 

 

 

The open country gives way to houses packed closer and closer, to cement and red brick. They roll through the crumbling border crossing without slowing. _Welcome to the Red,_ the overpass still reads, gutted remains of a card reader on either side, cracked and ruined metal still covered with jaunty, painted feathers. And looming ever closer, Tyler sees the shape of the skyline. A real city skyline – like Toronto – with towers and rising spires. The size of it – the scope – is enough to make something twist in the pit of his stomach. It’s big. Bigger than he imagined. Bigger than he remembered cities could be. And they have to go through it. 

Even from here, he can see parts of it are crumbling. Some of those towers don’t look so good, great chunks ripped out of their sides, as if something enormous had rushed past them and left a gaping wound. Some of them look like the tops have been snapped off, like toys in the grip of an angry child, the sky behind them an orange haze. 

And all around them in the road now are the corpses of dead cars. Both shoulders are lined with them. It’s worst in the southbound lanes. The ones heading away from the city, where the cars are jammed together, or even rammed into each other, like desperation made someone believe they could force their way through. Even going north, Wayne has to wind carefully among abandoned vehicles. He slows to a crawl to miss the worst of the potholes and crumbled pieces of cement barricades, rebar sticking out like exposed ribs, strewn across road by some long ago force. 

Or maybe, Tyler thinks, not so very long ago. 

From the backseat, he looks over Wayne’s shoulder as he drives. Even slower now, because the sun is riding low on the horizon and shining directly into their eyes. It makes the shadows black and long, and the light tricky. They’re on an elevated stretch of highway, made narrow by teetering towers of debris one either side. Wayne squints out at the road. He turns, maneuvering them around the hulk of a dead car, and then has to turn again the other way to wind between another hunk of concrete and a fallen highway sign, long steel rivets still attached and reaching out as if trying to claw passersby. Their path is a forced zigzag, back and forth like a slalom run. Wayne keeps shifting in his seat, restless, and Tyler can see how tight his mouth his, how hard his hands grip the wheel. 

The inside of the car is quiet enough for Tyler to hear Tanner swallow, the thick catch of his breathing. 

They crawl forward, turning again around the pieces of a half-crushed barricade that’s tumbled into the road. 

Tyler looks at the deep gouges in its side, and in the asphalt underneath. He frowns. 

Because there’s no way for those cement pieces to have fallen like that. He looks to the side of the road. On this stretch, there’s nowhere for them to have fallen from. They must have been _dragged_ – 

The hairs stand on the back of his neck, a cold jolt of adrenaline speeding his heart. “Wayne – ” 

But Wayne sees it too, just at the same moment as Tyler. That the debris in the road is no accident of destruction. It’s been placed. It’s been forming a chute. Wayne lets the car come to an idling halt. His eyes scan the road ahead. “Shit.” 

In the passenger seat, Tanner has gone still. There’s a whine building in Tyler’s ears, an edginess crawling under his skin, and the eerie certainty floods him that they’re being watched. Even without meaning to, Tyler drops his voice to almost nothing. “I thought you said the Union was in the north part of the city?” 

Wayne’s eyes flicker from one dark patch of shadow to the next, over the buildings to either side of them. “That’s not who I’m worried about.” His voice is also hardly more than a whisper. 

He has one hand on the wheel, one on the gearshift. He glances behind them. 

A shot pings off the front bumper. A small, metallic clink, but the sound is clear and distinct. 

Wayne throws the car into reverse. The car glances off one of the cement boulders, and the tires squeal and slide, throwing up gravel as Wayne jacks the wheel. Wayne throws an arm across Tanner’s seat, looking behind him as they reverse at speed. Tyler’s thrown against the side of the car, but he’s too adrenaline-flooded for it to hurt. He scrambles, tries to brace himself. He can’t see anyone outside, can’t hear anymore gunshots – 

What sounds like an explosion rips through the air. It rattles his teeth and Tyler hears the low groan of something heavy starting to give. He turns and looks behind them: one of the piles of steel and cement debris lining the road tips and crumbles, spilling across their path. Blocking their retreat. 

Wayne slams on the brakes. 

Tyler hits the seat in front of him and bounces off. He lies dazed for a moment, blinking and listening to his ears ring. The dust is so thick in the air he can’t see the sides of the road anymore, can only see a few feet beyond the windows of the car. But if he squints, he can make out shapes moving, running, and for just a second, a human form looms out of the cloud, face hidden by a bandana pulled over their nose and mouth. The crack of a gunshot goes off again, somewhere nearby, somewhere close. 

Wayne says, “They want the car.” 

Tyler’s breathing fast. “What – ” 

“They want the _car_.” Wayne’s yanking at his seatbelt. “Come on – ” 

Wayne’s already out of his seat, the door thrown open, and one leg out. 

Tyler hesitates. “But if we give up the car, how are we – ” 

“Tyler, come on _.”_ Wayne crouches low, behind his door, and then he’s moving, opening the back door from the outside. On the far side, Tanner is already out. 

Tyler tumbles out on shaky legs. Wayne grabs him hard by the shirt collar, pulling him down, squeezing him into the space between his body and the car. 

Tyler’s ears are still ringing. The air smells like burning things. Like trash and plastic and gunpowder. The dust is so thick it chokes him, and Wayne pressed against his side makes it even harder to breathe. Tyler squints, looking out through the gap between Wayne’s body and the car, but all he can see are shadows and swirling dust. His eyes keep trying to make out shapes, and his ears strain to hear something over the pounding of his heart. He and Wayne hold perfectly still, for one silent, endless moment. Tyler can feel his whole body trembling. He can’t see Tanner from where he is, and he tries to raise up, so he can see through the car’s windows to the far side, but Wayne holds him tight. 

“Tanner – ” Tyler starts, but his voice is obscured by his chattering teeth. He clamps his jaw shut, holds his breath, trying to calm the racing of his heart. All his nerves are raw, waiting. Wayne finally inches up, achingly slow, just high enough to be able to see through the windows. Tyler shifts with him, and he can see Tanner crouching, just his head visible, pressed tight to the far side of the car. 

Tanner turns and looks at them through the haze and the glass. 

Wayne lifts a hand, motions him towards them. 

A roar splits the air. 

A light, blue-white and brighter than the sun at noon, fills the sky above Tyler, erupts all around Tyler, forcing his eyes shut, whiting out his vision. A bullhorn screams, words too garbled with electric noise to make out. 

The sudden light throws the figures around them into sharp relief. Tyler can see people crouched, half-hidden behind the piles of crumbled cement debris. Closer than he realized they were. 

The sweep of the search light makes the figures freeze, then scatter. And then they turn their attention towards this new monster. The air fills with a rapid patter of gunshots. Tyler can hear them whistle and plink, and under that he can hear the roar of engines. The thrum and growl of something approaching. 

He thinks of Manchester. He thinks of the last time he ran from gunfire. He thinks about the great, churning machines and their guns at the gate. He thinks about fire, and the boom of those guns, so loud he thought it would echo forever, and he freezes. 

He can still see Tanner, although the dust is thick and the sweep of the searchlight leaves him intermittently blind. He can see Tanner, his form still crouched at the far side of the car. Tyler can see he has one arm held up to shield his eyes from the onslaught of light. 

Tyler could get to him. One quick dash around the car and he would be there, right next to him, for whatever’s about to happen. 

Tyler hesitates. 

And then Wayne moves over Tyler, crushing Tyler to the ground, forcing his face into the asphalt, his body a weight over Tyler’s. Tyler can’t see anything. But he hears a new wave of plinking metal-on-metal noises and there’s a hissing yellow cloud around them and a siren going off, and suddenly his lungs are on fire. His eyes stream tears. 

Tyler’s cheek grates against the ground, face ground down into the gravel, and it’s blurred by tears and pain, but he turns his head. He forces his eyes back open. 

From under the car, he can see Tanner’s feet, his knee, from where he’s crouched low. And approaching him, surrounding him, Tyler can see black tactical boots, so close, right on the far side of the car, right where – 

Tyler screams. He gets out one “Tanner!” before he starts to cough. 

Something is pulling at him. Wayne is dragging him. Tyler can’t breathe, can’t see. Wayne is grabbing at his shirt, trying to hold it over Tyler’s mouth. But Tyler needs to twist free. Tyler needs to get back, because through the flashing lights and the smoke, he can see someone else grabbing Tanner – 

Wayne drags him back, one arm looped across his chest. 

“No – ” Tyler lurches forward again, and he’s almost there, almost free. He can feel Wayne’s fingers sliding, and he’s almost free of his grip. Tyler gasps and his lungs are screaming, are burning from the inside out. He trips, falters. Wayne gets a better grip on him and pulls so hard, Tyler almost topples over backwards. He drags Tyler. Tyler can’t balance. His eyes weep so badly he can barely see the road under his feet. He’s tripping on uneven asphalt. His mouth is streaming saliva. 

They stumble, like drunks. 

Wayne shoves him, hard, and Tyler falls to his knees in some dark corner. The smell of damp and rot is strong all around them, but the sounds of sirens and the roar of engines has faded. Tyler tries to haul himself upright, nails scraping against brick. Wayne hauls him down again. Tyler’s palms sting where they hit to cement. 

Wayne has him held tight against him, and Tyler can feel Wayne’s sides heaving, both of them gasping, hunched, backs to the alley wall. 

Tyler tries to wipe his face on his shirt, but it’s not helping. He can hear this terrible, hollow rasping that when he tries to swallow, he realizes is the sound of his own breathing. Tyler gasps, he wants to say, _we have to go back. We left Tanner_ – but all he can do is cough. Cough until he feels lightheaded. But as soon as he can see, as soon as he can breathe, they’re going back for Tanner. They have to go back for Tanner. 

Tanner, who he last saw with those black boots surrounding him. Tanner, who was so close, and Tyler couldn’t get to him, couldn’t – 

Something grabs him from above. A fist in Tyler’s hair yanks his head back. For a second, there’s nothing but the shock of pain, and then water is being poured on his face. It’s warm and has a stale, metallic taste when it runs into his mouth. Tyler coughs and sputters. Blinking, he reaches up – 

“Stop touching your face. You’re making it worse.” 

Tyler drops his hands. He lets the water run over his eyes, over his lips and into his mouth. He spits. And when he blinks the water out of his eyes enough to finally see, there’s a face looming above him. Just a set of eyes: nose and mouth hidden behind a bandana. One person looking down at him, and another looking down at Wayne. 

The one above Wayne is holding a gun. “Get up,” he says. “Walk.” 

 

 

Tyler tries again to twist and look behind him. 

He gets shoved forward, and he stumbles. Wayne reaches out an arm to steady him. “Walk,” he says, low and calm. “Just keep walking.” 

Tanner is behind them. They’re getting farther and farther away from Tanner with each step. Tyler looks to the left and right. If he ran, he might be able to make it around the corner, out of sight. But they’ve been twisting their way down a mess of alleys, endless turns between anonymous shuttered buildings. Even if he could get away, there’s no guarantee he could find his way back to where they left Tanner. A murky twilight is also settling in around them. 

There are a million excuses not to try. 

But really, Tyler is scared. 

Tyler was too scared to help him at the car, and he’s too scared now. The sick, horrible truth of it winds through him, and he has to blink back tears. 

Tyler looks over his shoulder again. He should have been faster. He should have been braver. Tanner would have been braver for him. 

But now he’s gone. And nothing is going to get Tyler those seconds back. 

Tyler’s vision blurs, and he stumbles again. The man behind him catches him this time, grabbing Tyler’s jacket between the shoulder blades, he leans forward to peer at Tyler’s face and his eyebrows are lifted in a pointed suggestion to keep moving. His face is covered. Both of men who grabbed them have their faces covered. Tyler looks down at the gun the man is wearing on his hip. He thinks again about running. 

Wayne, like he can tell what Tyler is thinking, tightens his grip on Tyler’s arm. 

Tyler keeps walking. He doesn’t know where they’re going, and no information has been offered. But he doesn’t really care. _Tanner_ , his brain chants in time with his footsteps, and to himself, _You. Didn’t. Help._

The taller of their escorts calls a halt to their march in front of a wooden building that cants to one side. Every line of it slants. An assortment of two by fours are propped under the leaning side. Tyler can see where the wood is stressed and starting to bow. 

Wayne hesitates. 

“Go in.” The man behind him gives him a shove. 

The door swings open easier than it looks like it should with the frame no longer square. But there’s a groove worn in the floorboards and the hinges don’t even squeak. The inside of the building has been gutted, bits of the plaster missing, and the pipes show through in places. They are instructed to keep moving, and are sent to the back and down a set of stairs. Behind him, Tyler hears a flashlight click on, and a pool of light appears at his feet. The light skates off towards the darkness at the back of the basement. “That way.” 

Wayne moves cautiously next to him. The dark is thick enough around them to make Tyler feel unsteady, nervous about the wavering of the flashlight’s beam. The air is damp, and in the farthest reaches of the basement, the flashlight reveals a place where the wall looks like it’s been eaten away, raw brick and cement chipped back to form a gaping mouth, and through the gap, a glimmer of faint light. Wayne hesitates again. He turns and gives Tyler a look, tight lines of worry all over his face, framing eyes that are still red and swollen. He looks behind them, at the two men, and then he gives a tiny shrug and goes forward. 

They move through a section of rough tunnel, walls of bare earth, air damp and cool. There are bulbs strung up at uneven intervals. They flicker occasionally, and there’s a breeze – fresh air coming from somewhere ahead of them, and this sways the wire and sends their shadows jittering and dancing against the rough wall. They step through into a wide open space. There’s more regular light now, humming fluorescent tubes, real cement walls and floor and ceiling. And Tyler can see painted lines on the ground, faded, but enough to tell him they’re in a parking garage. They’ve tunneled into an underground parking garage. 

The garage isn’t empty – walls are lined and packed with things – bundles and boxes all roughly organized. One section off to their left has car parts and whole cars, lined up neat next to what look like military vehicles in various stages of ill repair. Next to that is an area with nothing but stacks of spare tires, floor to ceiling. And in yet another section are endless piles of computer equipment: a row of dead-eyed monitors, a small mountain of keyboards. An entire plastic bucket filled to the brim with what look like the small silver chips that ran the phones that he and Quick had talked about what feels like a million years ago. 

They walk past a small mountain of rebar. A bale of coated wire. Tyler catches glimpses of mirrors and furniture; dozens of stacked school chairs. An array of buckets of paint, the floor beneath them a multicolor splatter. He looks over at Wayne; Wayne looks impressed in spite of himself. The space is massive. Their footsteps echo. 

They reach the end of the row and are sent up a stairwell. They come up into a room, empty except for a flat wooden table, two doors, and a black box on the wall. One of the men they’re with sighs with what sounds like relief when the door clicks shut behind them. 

Tyler turns to look, and gets his real glimpse of the people who have taken them here. They’re not in uniform, but they’re both dressed in shades of gray and drab, the colors further muted by a coating of dust. The clothes fit poorly, hanging loose in places. Tyler looks at the t-shirt of the taller man, and the faded and flaking image of bull stares back at him, threadbare and much-mended. He has open sores on his hands. Both of them have brittle, tired look. 

The shorter of the two walks to the box on the wall. He tugs his bandana down – 

Not he. She. A woman, with roughly-cut short hair, and thin to the point of looking sexless. She holds down a button, and the box – an intercom – crackles to life. “Brought in two,” she says, clipped, efficient. 

The box asks, “Union?” 

She looks them over again and holds down the button. “No.” 

There’s no response from the box, but she doesn’t look like she’s waiting for one. She turns around and looks at Tyler and Wayne, and then at her companion. He pulls his bandana down as well to reveal hollow cheeks, and a long scar across half of his face. The lower halves of both their faces are clean compared to the grit and dust worked in the skin surrounding their eyes. 

The woman has a tattoo – four stars in a row. Just above her collarbone. Tyler studies it with narrowed eyes. Maybe it means something, but it’s strange to see tattoos on a woman. Tattoos usually mean military. Or sometimes hockey. But it feels strange to see a woman here at all – 

The other guard laughs. He’s watching Tyler watch the woman. He shakes his head. “Thinking about taking on Lyra? Go ahead. Pull something. I’d like to see you try.” 

Lyra shoots them both a look, half irritated, half amused. She’s wearing a knife on her belt, and she rests a hand on it, casual. 

Wayne clears his throat. “Where are we?” His voice is hoarse. 

Neither of them answer. The woman, Lyra, looks at Wayne, but just grins in response. 

Wayne tries again. “Who are you?” 

Before she can answer or not-answer, the door at the far side of the room opens, and three new people walk in. Two men and a woman. The men are wearing guns at their hips, but it’s the woman who looks at their escorts and says, “Well?” 

Lyra answers her. “They were in an unaccompanied vehicle coming up the south route. By Merridy’s old place. We stopped the car. Everything was going good. And then the Union showed up.” 

The new woman frowns. “What brought the Union in?” 

Lyra hesitates. “We had to blow one of the set stacks to keep them from getting away. That could have – ” She trails off. 

The new woman raises an eyebrow at Wayne. “So you’re quicker than Lyra thought you’d be? That’s certainly something for me to keep in mind.” She looks back at Lyra, eyebrow still raised. “And the car?” 

Lyra winces. “The Union got it, I guess.” She sounds embarrassed. “There was another one of them,” she nods at Tyler and Wayne. “The Union got him, too.” 

That hits Tyler square in the stomach. He feels sick, and he tries to swallow back the burning taste of bile in his throat. Tyler is too hot, too cold all at once. Wayne reaches out a hand, and Tyler feels Wayne’s fingers tighten on his arm. 

“Our people?” 

“Fine. Gone to ground to avoid the tear gas. We found these two in an alley. About a quarter mile away.” 

The new woman looks at them. Her clothes are as worn and dull as they others, but she’s wearing a thick cloth headband, orange and pink, and by far the brightest thing in the room. She walks up to Wayne, and she barely comes up to his shoulder; she has to crane her neck to look him in the eye. But she moves without hesitation, not an ounce of fear. “My name is Katrina Moses,” she says. “You are now in the custody of Unincorporated Chicago. You have not, as of yet, done anything to make me harm you. And as long as you cooperate, we can keep it that way.” She steps back and nods to her compatriots. “Alright. Let’s see what they’ve got on them.” 

They are stripped and searched without any fanfare. Tyler’s movements are numb and robotic, and Wayne’s have a slight hesitation before each act of compliance that says he’s pissed. Katrina watches with cool disinterest, as though it were normal for them to be standing here, undressed in front of her. One of the men passes Wayne’s jacket off to her, and she combs her fingers over the fabric, inch by inch. She hits something along a seam, and her eyes flick up to Wayne’s. She smiles. 

Wayne crosses his arms over his chest. 

She uses a penknife to work the seam open, and she pulls free the gold and Wayne’s coins, what’s left after they bought gas in Cincinnati. The gold she bites down on and then passes off. The coins she holds onto, turning them, letting them clink together in her palm. 

Wayne says, “Those ought to get us out of here unharmed.” 

Her eyes latch onto his. “You think you can buy your way out with these? You really think Dean Lombardi’s name has any weight here?” She sounds amused. 

Wayne doesn’t respond. 

She gives his face a searching look. “What are you doing carrying Lombardi’s tokens around, anyway?” 

“We’re hockey players.” Wayne’s arms are still crossed over his chest. “We work for him.” 

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t look like a hockey player.” 

Wayne narrows his gaze to match hers. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that,” Wayne says. “I really could buy our way out.” 

She smiles at that, a quick, white flash of teeth. “I’ll bet.” She pockets the coins. “We’ll talk soon.” Then she laughs. “Put them in the guest wing.” 

 

 

She laughed, Tyler thinks, because it was a joke. 

The guest wing consists of prison cells. On the way there, they walked past windows, but these were shuttered or filled with rubble. There’s no natural light in the hallways, so for all Tyler knows they could still be underground. The whole place feels cobbled and scavenged together. But this place must have been some kind of detention or holding facility, because the cells have honest steel bars and real locks. 

It’s small: there are only four cells in total, each with two bunks, a toilet, and a strangely low sink. Of these, only two are occupied: theirs and the one across the narrow aisle from them, which holds a man who was doing pushups when they came in, but has since stopped to watch them. Tyler’s eyes glance off him and back to Wayne. Wayne doesn’t seem panicked as they’re led into their cell. He walks in quietly, turns, and stands watching their guard lock the door. If anything, he seems irritated. Impatient. 

Tyler feels sick. His desperation cemented during the walk over. They have to do something. They need to get out here. The sooner they get out of here, the sooner they can go back, go find Tanner, because he has to. He has to _try._

Tyler watches their guards disappear out the door at the end of the hallway. He listens to the door click shut and the sound of a bolt slide home. “We need to get out of here,” he starts, and he’s trying very hard to keep his voice even, although it’s not really working. “We really need to get out – ” 

“Tyler.” Wayne puts a hand on him, and it’s somehow less comforting than it was in the street. “Tyler, I think I can talk us out of here, but you need to stay calm.” 

Tyler stares at him for one long minute, a voice shrieking inside his head that there’s no fucking way he can be _calm._ Not now. Not when – except he has to be. If Wayne can get them out, in one piece, that’s the best way. And then they can get Tanner and get out of this miserable city, and never come back. Tyler bites his lip. He nods. 

The door at the end of the hall swings open again. The guard says, “Katrina wants to talk to you again.” He’s speaking to Wayne. “Just you.” 

Wayne nods. He starts to go and then hesitates. “Calm,” he repeats, to Tyler. “I’m going to get us out, okay? Don’t talk to anybody while I’m gone.” He looks over his shoulder at the other occupied cell. “Including him. Got it?” 

 

 

Alone with his thoughts, Tyler thinks: Tanner would not have left him. Tanner would have been faster. Tanner wouldn’t have let Wayne pull him away. Tanner would have – 

Tanner is gone. Tyler imagines his body facedown on the pavement, a neat bullet hole in the back of his skull. Tyler can see each detail, vivid. Can imagine his hands bound behind him. A spreading pool of blood. 

He makes it to the stainless steel toilet just in time to vomit, bringing up mostly water and bile that burns his throat. He gasps. Or, Tanner could be hurt. He could be frightened and alone. They might beat him, and Tyler imagines Tanner’s face bloodied, teeth broken, eye blacked. He could be tied up – and he would hate that. But he’s alone and afraid. Because Tyler let him slip. Tyler leans against the wall, shaking. 

The man in the other cell is watching him. 

Tyler starts to cry, and he can’t even hide his face. His shirt is still streaked with pepper-smelling residue. His skin smells like gunpowder and burning and that makes his stomach turn again. His tears leak out faster, and Tyler gives in, covers his face with his hands, and sits curled with his back to the man across the aisle. 

He hates everyone here. He hates Katrina. He hates the people who attacked their car. He hates the soldiers and their guns. He hates so much that in that moment, he would pull them apart with his bare hands, were they standing in front of him. 

He hates Quick, and Wayne. If it wasn’t for Wayne, they wouldn’t be here at all. And Wayne was the one who pulled him back, pulled him away – 

Tyler curls into a tighter ball. 

It’s not any of those people’s fault Tanner is gone. It’s his. 

Tyler cries until his eyes are swollen and his head aches, raw on the outside to match the inside. 

Tyler wipes his face with the back of his hand. Stupid. Stupid to sit here crying. He should be trying to think of a way out. Should be trying to think of what they’ll do after they get out, because Tanner’s not dead, he decides. He isn’t. And they’re going to get out of here, and they’re going to go get him. That’s the only thing to do. 

Tyler takes a breath. Wayne’s going to come back. Soon. Wayne’s going to talk to these Chicago people and make them see reason, because Wayne is good at talking to people. And then he’s going to come back, and they’re going to leave and go get Tanner. Soon. 

He turns so he can watch the door, but there are no signs of life or movement beyond it. No sounds at all except for the man in the other cell. 

Tyler looks at him. He’s returned to his exercise routine; he’s switched from pushups to sit ups. 

Every time he rises, his gaze lights on Tyler. 

Tyler blinks swollen eyes. The man looks like a soldier. He doesn’t have a shirt on, but his pants are the drab black that Union soldiers wear. His hair is buzzed short in a military style. Tyler gets a wave of rage looking at him; he can feel it heating his blood, prickling down his spine. 

The man pauses when he sees Tyler is watching him back, holds frozen at the apex of his movement 

It must be nice, Tyler thinks, to be the ones running everything. Must be nice to be the ones with the biggest guns and the most people. Controlling everything while everyone else is scrambling. So you can just hurt people, and not have to care. Not care at all that they’re real, live, human people. With families. With people who love them. 

Tyler’s throat closes. He stares because he can’t look away. The man’s hands and his face are tan, but his torso and arms are pale. He’s not wearing Tags, but maybe, Tyler thinks, Katrina and her people took them. He has tattoos. One on his chest: a word in delicate script, and now that he’s holding still, Tyler can see it reads, _Olivia 2 – 7 – 2011._ And another on his shoulder: two snakes twined around a staff. A caduceus. 

A doctor, Tyler thinks. But military. A medic, then. 

They watch each other in silence. Even if he is Union, he doesn’t look so very different from Tyler, what with both of them locked up. Maybe only a few years older. 

Tyler thinks about being in the car with his parents, fleeing south from Toronto into the night. Running away from _you_ , he thinks, looking at the soldier. And he thinks about Manchester and the burning gates and the bodies blown backwards, like they were simply in the way. He thinks about Tanner shaking in his arms, and his heart caught up in his throat in the woods outside the compound. That was you, too, Tyler thinks. 

Tyler watches him and smiles, gets a vicious bolt of glee that this man is locked up, too. 

Because that means this world is vicious to everyone. And maybe it means the Union’s not so powerful. Because you’re here, aren’t you? He thinks, still watching. Probably, the Union could knock down the walls around them, if they really wanted to, but they haven’t. 

They left you here. To rot. 

Good, Tyler thinks. _Good._

 

 

Wayne doesn’t come back. Not in the time it takes for Tyler’s rage to settle enough for him to grow restless. Not in the time it takes for Tyler to count all the ceiling tiles, and count the bars on the front of the cells, and the steps it takes to cross from one end of their cell to the other. 

The door at the end of the hall finally opens, and Tyler looks up at the sound, but it isn’t Wayne. It’s the woman who took them from the alley, Lyra. She unlocks the door to his cell and says, “Come with me.” 

There doesn’t seem to be any option but to go. 

Lyra brings him to a room that reminds him of Quick’s empty office. A desk, two chairs, and nothing else. The walls are a strangely bright, cheerful yellow. The wallpaper border that runs around the room depicts dancing families of stick figures. 

Katrina is in one of the chairs. She nods at Lyra, who then turns and leaves. Katrina smiles at him, gestures to the other chair, and waits for him to sit, chin resting in one hand. “Since I’ve introduced myself, what is your name?” 

Tyler wonders what reaction his full name would draw, if any, and he thinks for a moment of screaming at her. Of launching himself across the desk to attack. His anger and fear flicker and mix, hot and cold, like being feverish on a summer day. He hesitates. Wayne also told him not to talk to anyone. 

She laughs, like he’s said something charming. She says, “If you give me a reason to let you go, I might. But if you keep silent, you can stay as long as you like. As you’ve seen, we have the space.” 

Tyler bristles. “Where’s Wayne?” 

“Safe. And sound.” She leans forward. “He told me you were hockey players, and some other things, too. Maybe if you tell me the same things, I’ll believe you’re both telling the truth, and I’ll let you go. I don’t particularly want to pick a fight with the hockey contingent.” She pauses. “Most of them, anyway.” 

“We are hockey players,” Tyler grits out. “We were headed north, and you need to let us go.” 

“Why?” 

Tyler is getting impatient. “Because they took Tanner, and I have to go get him back.” 

“Tanner is the third person you were with?” 

“Yes,” Tyler snaps, and it all spills out at once, “The soldiers took him, and they might – they might hurt him, and I need to get him back.” 

She’s staring at him, eyes narrowed. 

“You have to let us go,” Tyler repeats. “We’re wasting time. I don’t know what you want, but we don’t have it. We don’t have _anything_. And I need to go. I need to go find him.” 

“You – what’s your name?” 

Tyler can’t come up with any reason not to tell her. “Tyler,” he says. “My name is Tyler.” 

“Tyler. You and my people watched the Union take your friend.” 

Tyler hates her. “Yes.” 

“Do you know where they took him?” 

Tyler’s mouth works. He sinks in his chair. “No.” 

Her hands spread, presenting a question to the air between them. “Then how exactly are you planning on getting him back?” 

“I don’t – ” A heady panic is starting to creep in around the edges of his thoughts. “I don’t know. But I have to.” 

Her head tilts. “The Union took him. When they take our people, they are held at the Union facility on the north side – a few days, a few weeks.” She shrugs. “Until some of their people from up north can be bothered to come and collect them. They come in with their trucks full of supplies and they leave with trucks full of our people. And then – ” She waves her hand, like something fluttering away in the wind. “They’re gone.” 

Panic has hardened into a sharp, icy rock in Tyler’s stomach. He drags his eyes back from her hand to her face. Her gaze looking back at him is cold. “Please,” he says. “Please. You have to let us go. Please help us.” 

She doesn’t acknowledge his plea. She taps a finger against the tabletop. “Who were you meeting with in Chicago?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “We weren’t meeting with anyone. We didn’t even want to go through Chicago.” 

“Were you meeting with the Hawks?” 

“Who?” 

Her eyes narrow further. “The Blackhawks. What were you bringing them?” 

“I told you.” Tyler has to work to keep from shouting. “We weren’t even planning on coming here. We wanted to go through the Red  & White. To take the bridge. I just told you. We don’t know _anyone_ here. We’re trying to get north. To the Lake – ” 

“Is Dean Lombardi providing the Hawks with supplies?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “No. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about that.” 

“Do they have access to the computers?” 

Tyler stares. He shakes his head again, out of words. “What computers? I keep telling you: I don’t know anything. Please – you have to help me get Tanner back.” 

She sits back, arms folded across her chest. “We need access to the computers to communicate.” 

It’s like there’s a red mist coloring his thoughts. “You have computers lying around, I’ve seen them. We walked past them – ” 

Her face folds up into a impatient, unamused expression. “It’s not that simple. Everything useful is encrypted. But you know that. You all figured it out. We know you’ve been using computers and chips to get around the encryption.” 

Computer chips – chips – phones. Tyler frowns. “The… network?” 

Her gaze on him goes suddenly sharp. “The network,” she repeats. “Tell me how to access that.” 

“The network,” Tyler stumbles, shakes his head. “The network’s down. The network’s _gone._ ” 

Her stare says she doesn’t believe him. 

“It _is._ Please. You have to believe me.” He has to convince her. She knows where Tanner is being held. She could help him get there, but at the very least, she has to let him go. “I swear I’m telling the truth. I don’t know anything about the network or how it works or why it’s not working anymore. I just – I need to get to Tanner.” He waits, but she just regards him with a long, stretching silence. “Please,” he tries again. “I don’t know anything.” 

She leans forward. “What good are you, then? Why should I do you a favor when you have nothing useful for me?” 

Tyler’s begging, and she doesn’t care at all. He stands – sending the chair clattering back, leans across the desk. “You have to let us go – ” 

She doesn’t even flinch. She gestures at his chair. “Sit down.” 

“You _have –_ ” 

“I don’t have to do anything.” She folds her hands neatly in front of her. “Sit down.” 

Tyler picks up his chair. His hands are shaking. He sits. 

When she looks at him, there’s not an ounce of compassion in her gaze. “I help people who help me. You hockey players think you had it so bad, but you’re nothing but hothouse flowers. You were clothed, fed, kept – ” Her mouth tips. “But you decided you didn’t like it. And when you don’t like something, you throw it to the ground. You break it.” 

Tyler can feel the blood in his face, hot under his skin. 

“Have you ever tried to solve a problem without punching anyone? Have you ever had to take care of yourself?” She pauses. “Have you ever even met a woman who wasn’t there to make your life easier?” 

Tyler opens his mouth, but she pushes on before he can respond. “So when you all decided you’d had enough of being told what to do, so you just threw up your hands. Let’s start a fire, you said. Let’s burn it down. We’ll pull down our _oppressors.”_ She spits the last word in Tyler’s face. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Tyler says, voice so rough it doesn’t even sound like his own. 

“I know plenty about you. I know you didn’t give a damn about anyone else when you all started this mess, and I know you still don’t. You hockey players have your _network_ , but we’re cut off. The Hawks have holed up in their own little corner of the city. I don’t know how they get by, but we have to scavenge. Do you know how hard it is to hijack an armed convoy when you’re carrying rocks and pistols?” 

Tyler can’t speak. 

“You’re so desperate for your friend – I care about my people, too. You think I like losing my people? I could tell you every single name but it would take too long. They took two last week – for doing nothing more than being outside. Do you know what that’s like? To be in danger for simply daring to show your face in your own city? It’s dangerous just to be outside, but look – ” She gestures to the room around them. _“Look.”_

Tyler looks. He looks at the missing light bulbs, at the propped, uneven table. He looks at her clothes, which will soon be too thin for the season. He looks at the cracked and slow-healing cuts on her hands, the hollow look to her face that says she’s not eating much. 

“I love them – and I send them out anyway.” She shakes her head. “You have no idea. The last truck we hijacked was empty, no food, no supplies, just that soldier you’re rooming with and his partner. Pinned in place and lying there like a goddamn joke.” She stops to take a breath, and just for a moment, Tyler thinks he can see her hands tremble. She folds them again in front of her. “This whole world is running out of resources. This whole world is burning.” 

Her eyes are aflame, and Tyler can barely look at her. 

“Your revolution threw this whole world into chaos, and you don’t give a damn. You were always taken care of, and now you only take care of each other.” She sits back and shakes her head. “To he who much is given – fuck you.” 

 

 

The cells are dark when he’s taken back to them. Just a small light burning above the hallway door, and everything around him faded to a muted gloom. Wayne is waiting. He offers Tyler a bowl of soup that Tyler waves off. He wraps his arms around himself. 

Wayne sets the bowl to the side. “I made them an offer. I think there’s a good chance they’ll take it.” 

Tyler looks at him. “An offer?” 

Wayne’s fingers steeple together in front of him. “I said if they let us go, when we get to the Lake, we’ll get some supplies sent their way.” 

There’s something casual in his voice, and for a moment, Tyler wonders if he means it, if the offer is genuine. “Will that be enough? Will they let us go?” 

Wayne tips his head, considering. “I think so.” 

Tyler blinks at him, and runs that back through his head to make sure it means what he thinks it means. “So what’s – ” He stands and looks through the bars at the door at the end of the hallway. “Then what are they waiting for? If they’re going to let us go, they should let us go now.” 

“I think Katrina’s gonna let us cool are heels in here overnight. She wants to make sure we know they’re serious.” Wayne shakes his head. “She’s on a fucking power trip, that one.” 

“That’s – no.” Tyler stares at him. “We need to get out now.” 

Wayne frowns. He looks pointedly at the lock on the door and then at Tyler, like he wants to know what Tyler expects him to do about _that_. “Katrina’s doing us a favor in a way. It’s late. And it’s a lot colder out there than it is in here.” 

There’s no urgency in his voice. He sounds tired – he sounds exhausted – but not in any rush. He sits down on one of the bunks, rests his hands on his knees. Sits down like he’s making himself comfortable – like he expects to _stay_. When he looks up at Tyler, his face is a careful neutral. 

Tyler can’t make it a question. He won’t make it a question. “We have to get out of here,” he says. “So we can go get Tanner.” 

Wayne takes a breath. He steeples his hands again. His voice is gentle. “Tyler.” 

“We have to go get Tanner.” Tyler feels his pulse start to tick up. His skin covered with the strange, crawling heat of a warning. “We have to. We brought him here. I brought him here. We can’t – ” Tyler stops. Wayne’s eyes are a liquid sort of dark. Full of something – full of pity, and Tyler’s throat closes all at once, voice giving out mid-sentence. 

“Tyler, it’s my job to get _you_ to the Lake of the Woods. There’s not anything we can do for Tanner now. We don’t even know if he’s still in the city.” 

Tyler stares. In that perfect silence, he can hear the soft slide of Wayne’s hands as they move over each other, and the tiny, shuffling sounds of the soldier moving around in the cell across from them, and maybe even the sound of the air from the vents, coming in from some distant, unknown source. There’s a sudden, hot wash of panic, but when that recedes his mind feels strangely quiet. A dark canvas with just one thought standing out. Tyler takes a breath. He swallows. And when he can finally speak without his voice shaking, he says, “What do you mean, it’s your _job_?” 

He can see it, on Wayne’s face – the instant he realizes what he’s said. The beat of regret. “Tyler – ” 

Tyler thinks: there is everything that has ever happened to him in his whole life, and then there is this. If he looked down, there would be a crack in the ground with everything that happened before on one side and him on the other. This is different, and he is alone in this. “I thought you were helping me because we were friends. You said we were friends.” 

Wayne stands. He stretches an arm towards Tyler. “I was asked to bring you to the Lake _because_ we’re friends. And I _am_ your friend. I also said I wouldn’t lie to you, and the truth is that if Tanner is in Union custody, there’s nothing we can do for him.” 

Tyler’s not listening. Tyler shakes his head. “What are you saying? Why are you even here? Why are you doing this?” 

Wayne’s voice is perfectly even. His hand is still outstretched. “I’m here to take you to the Lake. It’s a good, safe place for you. That’s why we’re going there. That’s the only reason.” 

All of that is completely irrelevant. “I’m not leaving Chicago without Tanner.” 

“Tyler.” 

Like if he keeps saying Tyler’s name, Tyler’s gonna see reason. Or change his mind. “I’m not.” Tyler’s control is slipping. His voice is rising. “You can go to the fucking Lake by yourself, but I’m not going without him.” 

Wayne’s palms are turned up in a placating gesture, mouth open like he’s searching for what bullshit to tell Tyler next. 

Tyler’s is furious. “Stop. You don’t – you don’t care about me. You don’t care about him. You don’t even know him. He’s only here because of me. He never left me. When we were in the woods – ” And Tyler can see it again. Can feel it again – the cold and the wet and Tanner in the circle of his arms. “When we were in Manchester – and those people – because of my dad – ” The memory is so sharp Tyler can feel the roughness of the floor boards under cheek and the way the ropes had cut into his skin. The terror and the certainty that he was going to die in that room. “He didn’t care what my dad did. He didn’t leave me. I’m not going to leave him.” He’s yelling, and his voice breaks. He can’t catch his breath. He shakes his head, wordless. 

“You need to calm down. There’s nothing we can do tonight.” Wayne takes a breath. “Maybe in the morning – ” 

Tyler hits the bars of their cell, because there’s nothing else to hit, and sends them rattling. “ _Nothing_ is going to be different in the morning.” 

“Tyler – ” Wayne’s louder now, trying to speak over him. 

“Well,” the soldier across the hall says. “He is right about that.” 

There’s a beat of silent surprise and then Wayne spins. “You stay out of this.” 

The soldier’s standing up against the bars of his cell, facing them, his scowl barely visible in the low light. “I just figured I should get a say. Since it’s clear you guys aren’t gonna let me get any sleep.” He shrugs. “I mean, I don’t give a fuck if this dumb, motherfucking friend of yours rots, but – ” 

“Fuck _you_ ,” Tyler spits. 

The soldier laughs. “Hey. You’re getting out of here alive. Think about that. That’s not nothing. They’re gonna let you go. Look around – they don’t have the resources to keep you. Count yourselves fucking lucky.” 

Tyler is in a fucking cell. Tanner might be hurt. Tanner might be – “Don’t fucking call me lucky – ” 

“You stupid fuck, you don’t even know how lucky you are.” His eyes lock onto Tyler’s, and there’s a cold, brittle honesty in them. “I’m just waiting to die. I’m just waiting for them to get tired of asking me questions, because then they’re gonna kill me.” There’s no joking in his voice. He believes it. That he’s going to die here. That this is the end. And there’s a chasm opening up underneath Tyler, because Tyler knows that feeling and because that’s how Tanner could feel right now, and he’s alone, and Tyler can’t – he can’t do anything. He can’t get to him. 

The soldier shakes his head. “So keep it fucking down over there. I’m trying to sleep.” 

Wayne steps in front of Tyler, blocking his view of the soldier. He puts his hands on Tyler’s shaking shoulders, but Tyler can’t feel their weight. “There is _nothing_ we can do right now,” Wayne says. “Why don’t you at least lie down? Try to get some rest. Things are gonna be clearer in the morning, okay?” 

Tyler shakes his head again, but he doesn’t resist when Wayne guides him to one of the bunks. He feels numb. He’s only getting air in these uneven, hiccupping breaths. Because in the morning, Wayne thinks they’re just going to leave. He thinks they’re going to go, and when Tyler thinks about that, it’s like his brain shorts out, nothing but a flat screen of white static. His legs give out, and he lets Wayne push at his shoulders until he’s lying down on the bunk. 

Wayne pats him. He crosses the cell, and lies down on the other bunk. He watches Tyler, his eyes bright in the dark, and for a moment Tyler thinks he’s going to say something. Some promise of compromise or hope, and it’ll be a lie, but in that moment Tyler wants to hear it anyway. 

Wayne closes his eyes. 

Tyler is left in the dark. 

He doesn’t sleep. 

He tries to imagine what the morning will be like. What the series of events will be. That they’ll rise, and maybe eat, and speak to Katrina, and then be turned loose on the streets of Chicago. He thinks about Wayne, pragmatic, plotting how far north they’ll make it on foot. How far before they find some outpost of Dean’s to get word back. How Tyler will shoulder a pack, and turn his face to the north, and put one foot in front of the other, in a slow, unceasing progression away – 

He jams a knuckle in his mouth, trying to stifle a moan from working it’s way out of his throat. He curls into a tight ball and he thinks about Tanner and their cabin outside Hamden, about the way Tanner curved around him, and the drag of his fingers over Tyler’s skin. He thinks about Tanner moving over him and inside him and about Tanner’s lips against his skin. He thinks about Tanner holding Tyler’s face in both his hands. Rough and desperate sometimes, but also like Tyler was something treasured, to be held onto. He thinks about the last time Tanner touched him like that, up against the wall of that house in Cincinnati. Tyler thinks about holding onto him in the shadow of that house. 

He never should have let go. 

Tyler sits up in the dark. Both Wayne and the soldier are still, their chests rising and falling in a slow, constant rhythm. Tyler stands where he can best feel the vent’s slight breeze on his face. He runs his hands over the bars, over the lock, and they’re still solid. Still no hope of give. 

And even if the door swung open, what then? He could run out of this room into what? Run out onto the street and do what? No one is waiting to help him. No one could. Even if Dean or his parents were here, what would they do? No one can do this for him. If this is going to happen, he has to do it. But he has no idea how. It seem so vastly, flatly impossible. 

He thinks about Katrina, and her hollow, haunted look. He looks across the aisle at the soldier, sleeping. He thinks about his desperate certainty that he’ll never be freed. Maybe it makes Tyler selfish to need Tanner like this. Maybe he is selfish to honor this one oath above all others. 

Tyler stares up at the ceiling. He’s going to do it, though. 

He’s going to get Tanner back, even if he has to walk into hell to get him. He thinks about the Union vehicles and guns raining down fire. He thinks about the fear and loathing in Katrina’s eyes when she spoke of how her people were taken, and the certainty in Wayne’s voice when describing their unassailable power. That for the infiniteness of its power, the brick of the Union stronghold might as well really be brimstone. 

_Well alright then,_ Tyler thinks, _I’ll go to hell._

The only question that leaves, is how. 

He returns to his bunk. There are several carved sets of initials in the wall next to where his head rests. He spends the night tracing their forms. He thinks about what his father would do, if he were here – build a battering ram, maybe. Or more likely, buy his way out. He think about what Dean would do. He’d like to believe that Dean would talk his way out. Dean could talk his way out of almost anything. That thought makes Tyler smile, just a little. 

But there’s another part of him that thinks Dean would do just exactly what Quick said he always does – use whoever he had to, to get whatever he wanted. 

_Where are you, Dean?_ He thinks. _And what are you going to do with me?_

And he thinks about Tanner. If he were here, Tyler would wind his arms around him, listen to the sound of his heart steady in his chest. If he were here, Tyler would promise him everything he’d never dared to before. Tyler would say everything he never thought he could, out loud, and he wouldn’t care who heard. He mouths those words up at the ceiling. 

 

 

He’s still awake when the noises of what must be morning kick in. When the sounds of people moving beyond the walls stir into being, and when the lights of the hallway flicker unreliably back to life. He looks at Wayne, just starting to stir. He looks past him at the soldier, nothing but a vague shape in the still-uncertain light. Tyler’s eyes linger on his form, and it’s there. The last stone in the arc of a bridge. The last stroke in a painting. An idea born fully-formed into being. 

Not how is he going to break open the secrets of the Union, but how is he going to keep them. 

And not _how am I going to do this_ , Tyler thinks. 

How are _we_. 

 

 

They’re given water, a small cup of oatmeal, and a summons. They stand before Katrina in the room Tyler spoke with her in yesterday. The bright yellow walls look exactly the same. And they’re told it’s morning, but it feels like it could still be the middle of the night. Tyler gets a sudden spike of fear that they’ve somehow been underground for days, or even longer, for weeks, months – 

“I’m letting you go,” she says. No preamble or digression. “I have no reason to trust you’ll do what you say.” She’s looking at Wayne. “But no reason to keep you, and I’m not entirely without mercy.” 

Tyler doesn’t know if he believes in her mercy, or even if Katrina believes in her own mercy, but rather in a bloodless reckoning of their capacity, and the resources they do and don’t have to allocate. What a mind, Tyler thinks, distracted for a moment. His father would have hired her in a second. 

Wayne says, “Thank you. I’ll be getting in touch with Lombardi soon. I’ll do what I can to get some supplies sent in this direction.” 

They smile at each other, like it’s all an exchange of formalities, that neither side really believes. She lifts a hand, a gesture to the people by the door. “Alright – ” 

“Wait.” Tyler takes a breath. All the eyes in the room land on him, but he feels calm. More awake after a night of not sleeping than he’s felt in a long, long time. “You said you help people who help you.” 

Her mouth curves. “I did. You haven’t helped me yet. Lombardi certainly hasn’t helped me yet.” 

“I’m not talking about Lombardi. I’m not talking about those supplies.” 

Wayne frowns at him. “What – ” 

Tyler turns to face him. He puts every last bit of finality he can into his voice. “I’m not leaving this city without him. You can help me, or you can go on without me. But I’m not leaving him.” 

Tyler turns away before Wayne can answer, his attention back to Katrina. “You said the Union was holding some of your people. You said the Union took your people, too.” 

Katrina is watching him with a very guarded look, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t say anything at all. 

Tyler swallows and presses on, trying not to sound desperate, trying to sound certain. “I’m going to get them out. I can return them to you, safe.” 

Her eyes narrow. “How?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “I can’t tell you. But I need something in exchange. From you.” 

She looks amused. “Say, for just a moment, I believed you could. What would you want in exchange?” 

Tyler looks over his shoulder, points back toward the cells they were held in. “The soldier in the cell across from us. I want him. I want his life.” 

“Look at you. Half a breath of freedom, and you’re already on your way to owning others.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you want with the silent Captain Anonymous?” 

Tyler can feel himself flush, held pinned under the weight of her stare. “If you give him to me, I can get your people out.” 

“But you still haven’t told me why I should believe you can.” 

Tyler draws himself up. This part is important. “You don’t have to believe me. I’ll get them first. And bring them to you. And then you can give him to me. That way I have to be the one to trust you.” 

She watches him in silence long enough that Tyler’s stomach falls. Long enough that Tyler’s convinced she’s going to say no, that she doesn’t believe him, and is just going to send them on their way. But Tyler holds her gaze. 

And in the end, it’s Katrina that looks away. She looks down at the ground, and then at the faces of her people in the room, and finally back at Tyler with eyes that are glittering and sharp. 

“You bring me my people,” she says. “And you can have your soldier.” 

 

 

Tyler turns on his heel, heads back the way they came. 

Wayne is a half-step behind him. “Tyler – Tyler what the fuck – ” His hand lands on Tyler’s shoulder. 

Tyler spins. “I said I’m not leaving here without Tanner.” And there’s enough in his voice or his face that Wayne falls back a step. “If you try to make me, you’ll have to knock me out. You’ll have to drag me out of this city, and when we get to the Lake you’ll have to tie me to something, because the first chance I get I’ll be back here. I promise you that. If you try to take me out of this city without Tanner, I will fight you every step of the way.” 

Wayne doesn’t have any response for that. 

Tyler pushes past him. He walks past the guard at the end of the hall, and he walks straight to the soldier’s cell. 

The soldier is lying on his bunk when Tyler gets there, but he gets up. He comes to stand in front of Tyler, just on the other side of the bars. His eyes skim back and forth from Tyler to Wayne. A careful, attentiveness in his posture. A tension like he’s readying himself for something, without knowing what that thing might be. 

Tyler clears his throat. “I made a deal with Katrina.” 

The soldier’s attention zeros in on him. He goes still. “A deal?” 

“For you,” Tyler says. “Katrina says she’ll let you go.” 

The soldier narrows his eyes. He shakes his head, like he doesn’t understand. His lips start to form words, but then he just laughs. He turns away. 

“She will,” Tyler repeats. He grabs the bars, and the soldier freezes when they rattle. “You’ll live. She’ll let you go.” 

The soldier turns back around, slow. And he’s not laughing anymore. “She’ll let me go if what, exactly?” 

Tyler swallows, or tries to, with his throat gone dry. “All the people the Union are currently holding in their detention facility – I’m going to get them out. And you’re going to help me.” 

 

 

He says, “Why would I help you?” 

Tyler takes a steadying breath. “Because you want to see your family again. And – because you weren’t delivering supplies when you got captured. You were here to pick up those prisoners.” Tyler started slow, but now he picks up steam. He keeps his eyes locked on the soldier’s. “And that’s because the people who sent you – they didn’t have supplies to send out. Things are just as bad for them. Wherever they are. But they sent you anyway. Because they must know that things are worse here. How thin everyone is spread.” Tyler points through the bars, at his shoulder, where his t-shirt now hides the caduceus. “You’re not a transport person. You’re not a driver. You’re a doctor. But they sent you anyway. Because they were desperate.” 

The soldier’s mouth has set into a hard line. He hasn’t moved, and he doesn’t give any indication whether Tyler’s guessed any of that right. “I’ve spent the last week not answering questions for them,” he says. “I don’t know why you think I’d tell you a goddamn thing.” 

“Because I’m not them.” Tyler’s voice is trying to shake, but he fights it off. “I’m not staying here. I just want to get my friend and leave, and the things you tell me – they’ll all leave with me. I’m not here to hijack your trucks. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want the Union’s supplies. I just want my friend. Please.” He needs to believe. He has to believe. “All I want is to take these prisoners off the Union’s hands. It’s – it’s noise to them. You know it is. A blip on their radar. It’s not hurting anyone. It even helps the Union – just like you said how Katrina doesn’t have the supplies to keep us, the Union doesn’t have the supplies to waste on them.” And Tyler’s really guessing now, but he’s well and truly started, so he may as well finish. “The food they’re giving them – they could be giving that to their own people. All I want is to go in and get them out, and then bring them back here. And then Katrina will let you go.” Tyler reaches through the bars again, to point at the soldier’s chest. “I know you have a family.” 

The soldier steps back, out of Tyler’s reach. He stares hard at Tyler’s face. “After you got your friend, why would I believe you’d come back here?” 

“You’d have to trust me,” Tyler acknowledges. “But I have to trust you, too. If you give me bad information. If you tell me to say or do the wrong thing, they’ll know and they’ll arrest me.” 

The soldier frowns, like the pieces are starting to fall into place. “Wait.” He blinks at Tyler. “You don’t want to break in. You want to – you think you’re just going to walk into a fully staffed Level Two Transfer Station, and walk out with a bunch of state detainees?” 

“Yes,” Tyler breathes. His hands tighten on the bars. “As you.” 

The soldier comes up close again. Face just inches from Tyler’s. “You really think you could do it?” 

Tyler swallows again. “Yes.” 

The soldier shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He searches Tyler’s face for one endless, silent moment. 

Tyler holds his breath. 

The soldier straightens. “My name is Captain Matthew Rau. Medic, first infantry.” And then he starts to talk. 

 

 

“You need the transport truck,” was one of the first things Rau said. “You’re over a week late – and that’s bad, but not unheard of. Travel ETAs have gone to shit. The truck can be a little banged up, but nothing too major, or they’re not going to believe you got through it.” 

“It was just me and Johnson,” Rau said. And at the name, he had stopped and his eyes cut away for a moment before continuing. “So, anyway. Not too banged up.” 

Tyler lifts the sledgehammer. The transport truck Rau and his partner were driving is now housed in a corner of Katrina’s expansive garage. She’d lifted an eyebrow when he told her he needed it, but Tyler just pointed at the row of other vehicles they had and weren’t using. “Besides,” he said. “Because of you, we lost our car.” 

She had smiled at him, utterly unapologetic. “What are you going to do for gas?” 

“ _And_ you took our gold,” Tyler pointed out. “That ought to be more than enough to pay for what we need.” 

Now he’s banging out the dents. He’s spent the better part of the last two days erasing the damage of the hijacking. After a great deal of staring, he managed to figure out the bolting system and replace the crumpled bumper with one lifted from another vehicle. The color was slightly off, but Tyler covered the worst of it with a fresh coat of matte black paint. 

The truck also has a flat that needs to be swapped out. Tyler rolls a tire that looks like it matches from the corner of the garage where Katrina has a whole stack of them piled. He lets it fall to its side, sending up a small cloud of dust. He wipes the black residue it left on his palms against his pant legs. Tyler looks at the truck. He looks at the jack. 

There’s only a finite number of ways they can go together. He settles in to figure it out. 

He lies on his back in the dirt and the dust. He clicks on a flashlight to study the undercarriage of the truck and there they are – two clearly labeled notches. But first he has to loosen the old tire. 

That’s how Wayne finds him – trying to leverage his weight against the wrench to loosen the lug nuts. Tyler glances up and then back down at his task. He wipes sweat from his forehead. “You could help, you know.” 

Wayne takes a seat nearby. “Help you kill yourself?” 

Tyler doesn’t bother to answer. He turns his attention back to the lug nuts, but they’re not giving. His sweat-slick hands slip of the handle of the wrench, and he gets a hot wash of irritation. He drops the wrench, letting it clatter against the cement. 

Wayne doesn’t startle. He watches Tyler, steady. Cool. 

“I’m going to need your help to do this,” Tyler tells him. “Not just – ” He waves a frustrated hand at the tire. “Not just this, but – all of it.” 

Wayne nods, thoughtful, like this has already occurred to him. “You’re expecting me to walk into a Union detention center – to risk my life – for what? For your friend?” 

Tyler takes a breath. He needs to kick something. He needs to hurt something. He buries his face in hands instead, breathing into his palms for moment. He lets his hands fall away. His arms hurt. His back hurts. He sinks down to sit against the side of the truck. “You risked your life to come and get me in Hamden. You were willing to risk your life to bring me to the Lake.” His throat is tight. It’s hard to look at Wayne. “Because – you said – we were _friends._ ” 

Wayne’s mouth tightens. 

“But that’s not it, is it? Or that’s not all of it?” Tyler shakes his head. He can feel something hot and furious right up under his breastbone. Right in the center of his chest. “Why then?” 

Wayne looks away. 

“You said you wouldn’t lie to me,” Tyler reminds him. 

Wayne’s gaze snaps back to his, just as much anger in it as in Tyler’s. “I haven’t lied to you.” 

“You haven’t told me everything,” Tyler fires back. 

“I never said I’d tell you everything.” 

That stings. Tyler nods, muscles of his neck almost too tight to let him. His jaw aches. “I see.” He nudges the discarded wrench with his foot. He takes a breath, and then another, and even through the red haze of his anger, some things now seem very clear. “What’s Dean giving you, for taking me to Lake?” 

Wayne looks away again. “Security.” 

Tyler shakes his head. “What does that mean?” 

Wayne looks at him. He doesn’t look ashamed. He doesn’t look angry. He looks calm. “That’s all I’m going to tell you.” 

“That’s bullshit,” Tyler says. 

“Then it’s bullshit.” 

And this, Tyler thinks, is where whatever he and Wayne had well and truly breaks. He nods. “Fine, then.” He gestures at the truck. “I still need your help. And you still want me at the Lake. You help me get Tanner, and I’ll go with you wherever you want. No fighting.” 

There’s a pause before Wayne answers. “This wasn’t supposed to be this hard,” he says. “Not on you. Not on anyone.” 

Tyler shrugs, tight. “A lot of things in my life weren’t supposed to be like this.” 

Wayne smiles a little at that. He leans down and retrieves the wrench from the floor. He nods at the tire. “You need a cross pipe,” he says. He nudges Tyler out of the way. He starts to work. 

 

 

The last piece of readying the truck is to touch up the Union crest painted on the driver’s door. Wayne holds a light for him, and Tyler bends to the task with the smallest paintbrush he can find. Cleaning up the lettering. Re-inking the leaves of the laurel wreath. 

It’s not a bad crest, Tyler thinks, eye-level with it and close. A valiant eagle. The bounty of laurel. Arrows pointed to fend off all comers. He concentrates on his work, re-tipping the arrows to make them sharp. Giving them back their edge. It requires an almost affectionate touch to be so careful, to make it look perfect. 

Wayne watches him work. Tyler can feel Wayne’s eyes on the back of his neck. He turns, and he’s in time to see Wayne eyeing the crest with a look of contempt, lip curled. 

“Don’t make it look too nice,” Wayne says. 

Their conversation has been strained, and it’s almost nice to be reminded they’re on the same side of this. That no matter some things, they still have this common enemy. Tyler laughs, low. “Gonna have to be able to look at it without wincing when we go in.” 

Wayne hums a response. 

Tyler turns back to his work, and in the cool dark of the garage, the silence seems to stretch all around them. 

Wayne asks, “Did you ever think how it would have been if you’d ended up on the other side?” 

Tyler sits back on his heels. He twists to look over his shoulder at Wayne. 

Wayne’s lost his disgusted look, but instead he seems thoughtful, eyes still focused on the crest. 

Tyler wonders instead what it would have been like to be Wayne, back in Scarborough. To watch Tyler go in and out of that giant house up on the hill. To hear the low growl of the dark-tinted cars the Union sometimes sent for his father. Or to watch the lights of the parties, from outside the glass. 

Tyler’s rage from earlier has cooled. Wayne worked beside him all day in a careful détente. So maybe, Tyler thinks, it matters less why he’s doing what he’s doing, than simply that he is. 

Tyler can’t hate him. Not when Wayne is being used just as thoroughly as Tyler is, both of them just pieces in some great machine. Tyler studies his face. Studies his hands, steady on the light. And Wayne has his own set of challenges, things Tyler will never have to deal with, will never have to worry about. Tyler thinks about Cincinnati, and the man who wouldn’t see him. The man whose hand was closed to him. 

For a second, in that garage, Tyler loves him again, fully and whole-heartedly, and all he can see next to him is the boy from the rink in Scarborough. He can hear Wayne’s voice cutting clear and sharp across the ice. He remembers the joy of playing together, and the smell of sweat and the solidness of Wayne’s body hitting his in the celebration that followed every goal. 

Tyler loved him then. Would have followed him blind into anything and anywhere. 

“Do you ever wish you were?” Wayne asks. “On their side?” 

Tyler turns back to the crest, restored now. Would it have been any easier, he wonders, to be on the side with all the big guns. The side running the show. The side for colonels and presidents and general managers. The side people like him are supposed to be on. 

“The Union destroyed my family,” Tyler says. He uses the edge of his thumb to remove a stray bit of color from what should be a white eagle feather. “The Union destroyed my home. My dad – ” Tyler’s throat closes, and for a second he has to fight to push on “ – the last thing my dad did for me, was make sure I wasn’t theirs.” 

He turns to look at Wayne. “I’ll never stand with them.” 

 

 

Rau also said, “You can look rough.” And he had given Tyler an amused once-over. “But not that rough.” 

So Tyler scrubs himself in the showers of Katrina’s stronghold, a row of communal shower heads and mildew-covered gray tile. He scrubs the grime from his body and the black engine grease from his hands. He watches the dirty water swirl away down the drain, and then he scrubs and washes again. The soap and grooming tools were all supplied by Katrina herself, who’s still watching him at every turn like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

He stands in front of the sink and cuts his nails short and even, scrubs under them until the skin tingles. Then he looks up, at his reflection. 

Tyler rubs a towel across his head, getting everything as close to dry as possible. He holds one curl between two fingers, pulling it straight to examine its length. It’s funny that this, of all things, is going to help grant him access. Grant him strength, like some reverse Samson. He picks up the electric razor. 

When he’s done, his head is shaved into a simpler version of Rau’s military cut. His face is clean-shaven, and every inch of him is clean. He looks down at the pile of garments – Rau’s pants and jacket, a Union undershirt and one of their square caps lifted from Katrina’s warehouse of supplies. He turns first one way, then the other to look at his profile. He adjusts the angle of the cap, trying to remember the soldiers he’d seen up close – not the rank and file that wore anonymous helmets and guarded their games and manned the checkpoints – but the officers. The ones who moved in his father’s circles. The ones who sometimes had escorted his father to jobsites. 

And despite what he told Wayne earlier, it’s not completely impossible that he could have ended up one of them. Being a commissioned Union officer would have been a respectable enough career for Toffoli’s son. 

Tyler straightens his spine, and puts his shoulder back. 

“Well, holy shit,” Rau says when Tyler returns to the guest wing. He stands and comes to the bars to get a better look. “You look like you just walked out of basic.” 

Wayne is lounging in the other cell – still their quarters, although now the door stays propped open. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Holy shit,” Rau says again, soft note of wonder in his voice. He’s looking at Tyler, like for the first time he thinks this might work. He motions for Tyler to turn around, and Tyler obligingly spins. Rau grins for a second, but the expression slips, and once again he looks serious. “I guess it’s time we talked about PerTs.” 

Tyler frowns. “Didn’t Katrina take yours?” 

Rau shakes his head, slow. “No.” He holds out his arm. Uses his right fingers to tap the inside of his left wrist. “It’s here.” He stretches his hand between the bars towards Tyler. “Feel.” 

Tyler hesitates. And then he runs his finger over the skin of Rau’s wrist. He can feel a small lump under the skin. Not much bigger than a grain of rice. “That’s – ” 

“Yeah,” Rau nods. He’s looking down at his own wrist like he’s not sure what to make of it. There’s a twist to his mouth when he says, “prisoners and officers they give iPerTs to.” A hint of sarcasm when he looks up at Tyler. “Safety first.” 

This is not something Tyler’s thought of. He blinks down at Rau’s wrist again. “How – ” This could fuck everything up. There’s no way he’s getting in without a tag, and if Rau’s tag is _in_ him, “how do we – ” 

“Simple,” Rau says. “We take it out of me. And put it in you.” 

Tyler’s mouth works. “You can – you can take it out?” 

Rau frowns, and he slows down, like he wants to make sure Tyler gets this. “Taking it out is going to be the easy part.” 

 

 

Rau makes the cut in his own arm using a box cutter with a new blade. Alcohol and swabs from Katrina’s homebrew medical kit already lying discarded next to him. He doesn’t make any noise, but Tyler can see the muscles of his throat go tight, just for a moment. He drops the thing into a waiting handkerchief and presses a wadded up towel to his wrist. He slides the handkerchief towards Tyler and nods. “There you go.” 

Tyler takes the bundle. When he wipes it free of blood, he can see the tag itself is just a tiny, metal cylinder. Barely longer than his pinkie nail. He holds it in the palm of his hand. 

Wayne leans over his shoulder to look at it. He looks at Rau. “You let them put that in you?” 

Rau doesn’t look up from blotting his wrist. “’Let’ is a strong word.” 

Tyler’s staring at the bit of metal in his palm. “So we’ll put it in me. Then, I’ll show up to the detention facility, and they’ll scan my wrist?” 

Rau nods. 

“And then what happens?” 

“My profile will come up. It has a picture – but it was taken when I was sixteen. I don’t think they’ll even really look at it. It’ll have my orders, which are to report to Red Transfer Station 5 and transport any currently-held detainees north, to the Blue & White. The trick though, is – ” Rau pauses, looking at Tyler almost hesitant. “If it’s a fresh incision on your arm – that won’t – that’ll be – ” 

“Too obvious,” Tyler finishes. 

“Yeah.” Rau hesitates again. “We need to camouflage it. We need to hide it.” 

“How do you hide a fresh incision?” Wayne asks. 

Tyler looks up, he locks eyes with Rau, and he knows Rau knows the answer, same as he does. “With a bigger cut.” 

“It’d have to be near that area,” Rau says. 

“Like – from my palm down my arm?” Tyler’s studying his own skin. It looks white and soft. Blue veins dangerously close to the surface. 

“You’re not – ” Wayne’s frowning at Rau. “You’re not cutting him. That’s crazy.” 

“Have to.” Tyler’s distracted, already holding his arm, trying to judge the best angle.” 

“No, like this.” Rau holds his arm up in front of him. “Needs to look like a defensive wound.” 

Tyler nods. That sounds right. 

“You are both fucking insane. I’m not letting you cut him.” Wayne reaches through the bars and grabs the box cutter from where it’s lying on the floor of Rau’s cell and throws it, sends it skittering across the cement. 

Rau rolls his eyes. “Oh, you think it’s somehow less dangerous to send him in there with a mark on his arm that says, ‘Hello, I just stole this iPerT from someone’?” 

“I don’t care what it says, I’m not letting a stranger – a _Union soldier_ – go at Tyler with a knife.” 

Tyler wonders for a beat if he’s worried more about Tyler, or about the possible loss of whatever payoff he’s supposed to get for delivering Tyler. And then he hates that he has to wonder that, and then he tunes them and their argument out. This is a step towards getting Tanner, which means one way or the other, it’s getting done. He gets up, and with Wayne and Rau still arguing, picks up the box cutter. He jams it into gap between the last cell bar and the wall, about chest height. And then, before he can stop to think about it, he brings his arm down across the blade, fast and hard. 

It doesn’t hurt. Tyler thought it would hurt more, but instead there’s just dull ache and a strange, lightheaded feeling. The box cutter clatters to the floor, and both of them turn to look at him. He can see Wayne’s face, frozen in a look of surprise. 

Then Wayne looks gray, looks sick. “Tyler – ” He’s up and across the room. “Fuck.” 

Tyler’s arm is starting to hurt more now. And there is, he realizes, with a strange feeling of distance, a lot of blood. On his arm. On the floor. His heart starts to race. 

Wayne takes Tyler’s arm in his hands. He presses his shirt to Tyler’s skin, trying to do that and hold it above Tyler’s head all at the same time. Tyler blinks, and the edges of his vision gray. 

“Bring him over here,” Rau calls. Tyler can see him standing at the edge of his cell, as close as the bars will let him get. 

“Fuck off,” Wayne calls over his shoulder. “Tyler, are you okay? Tyler, talk to me.” 

“Bring him the fuck over here,” Rau slams a palm against the bars. “I’m a fucking medic. I can help him.” 

Wayne hesitates, just a beat, and then he slips an arm around Tyler’s waist, drags him over. 

Tyler slumps against the front of the cell, dizzy now, and only vaguely aware that Wayne is helping him to the ground. Rau splashes alcohol across the cut, and that brings the world back into focus. The pain is bright and sharp. Tyler gasps. 

“Messy,” Rau says. He’s got Tyler’s arm pinned above his head, the towel pressed firmly over it. “But not bad aim.” 

After a minute, he peels the towel back to look. “Slowing down.” He smiles at Tyler and uses his free hand to pat Tyler’s shoulder. Like it’s old habit, Tyler thinks, to take care of people. To soothe those in distress. 

“Hold that there.” Rau puts Tyler’s uninjured hand over the towel and gives it to him to hold. He pokes around in the med kit until he comes out with a needle and thread. “Not optimal,” he says, with a one-shouldered shrug. “But to be honest, not the worst circumstances I’ve worked in, either.” He gestures for Tyler to peel the towel back. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” 

The bleeding has slowed to a slow ooze, and Tyler can see the raw flesh now, the gaping red and pink and white of the cut. He looks away, queasy. 

Rau starts to stitch. 

“Hey,” Rau says, and when Tyler turns back, Rau’s holding the PerT tag with a pair of tweezers. He looks at Tyler, waits until he’s sure Tyler’s watching, and then slides the tag under the skin, just before he ties off the last stitch. “It’s all you now.” 

 

 

They bring the truck to a halt in the shadow of the walls. Great blocks of concrete, stacked to tower over the street below, marked and scarred at irregular intervals. 

Wayne lets the engine idle. He leans forward to study the walls through the windshield, eyes climbing upward and then back down. Inspection completed, he looks at Tyler. 

Tyler looks back. 

Wayne is dressed in a uniform of scavenged Union gear. Head to toe, black and gray. He looks strange to Tyler’s eyes, and from the look on Wayne’s face, Wayne seems to think the same about Tyler. Tyler smoothes down the front of his shirt. He runs a thumb over the bars on his lapel, cleaning away nonexistent smudges. He straightens his cuffs, pulling his left sleeve so it lies smooth over the gauze covering the cut on his arm. He pulls the brim of his Union cap down just a bit lower. He runs through, in his mind, everything he can remember Rau telling him about what was about to happen. About what to say. About who to be. And then he straightens, and nods at Wayne. 

Wayne drives them up to the looming structure. The diesel engine of the truck is louder than the car that took them from Hamden, and the truck shakes and vibrates around Tyler, a hum that sets his teeth on edge. They approach the gate at a crawl, and Tyler can feel his heart climbing into his throat. The hair stands on the back of his neck. Tyler’s hands ball into fists, and he can feel his nails pressing into the skin of the heel of his hands. 

The guard at the gate waves them through with hardly a glance. 

Tyler and Wayne exchange a glance. Wayne manages a very stiff wave at the guard as they go past. 

There’s a second set of gates just inside the first. Before they’re even fully stopped, Tyler sees a soldier exit the guardhouse, tablet and scanner in hand. 

Tyler can feel beads of sweat dampening his hairline, starting to run down his back. He rolls down his window. 

“Good morning, sir.” The guard salutes, and Tyler returns the gesture, mimicking exactly as he can the way Rau had shown him. The guard’s scanner is hand-held. It looks like a smaller version of a metal detector wand. Tyler props his wrist in the window, where the soldier can reach it, because that, Rau said, was the normal protocol. 

The soldier swipes and frowns. The machine makes an angry buzz and Tyler’s heart lodges in his throat. He can’t look away from the soldier’s rifle, slung causally over his shoulder, metal gleaming in the sun. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” The guard says. “You mind rolling that gauze back?” He nods at the bandage on Tyler’s wrist. 

“Of course.” Tyler fumbles a bit with his sleeve, and then peels back the bandage. He tries to keep his hands from shaking too obviously. 

The guard gives a low whistle at the sight of the wound. “Ugly, sir. Trouble on the road?” 

“Always,” Tyler manages, voice sticking in his throat. 

“Amen, sir.” The guard holds the wand up again, moving it slower this time across Tyler’s wrist. “The equipment’s a bit touchy, you know?” He doesn’t sound suspicious at all. He sounds almost apologetic. This time, the wand emits a small chirp and Tyler can see information filling the screen of the tablet the guard has under his arm. 

The guard barely glances at it. “The Major will be really glad to see you, sir. We’ve been waiting.” 

“Right,” Tyler agrees. “Sorry for the hold up.” 

The guard looks up at him. He has blue eyes. “Well, you’re here now.” He smiles and moves to other side of the car. Tyler listens to the sound of his books on the pavement. There are two more guards standing next to the guardhouse. One of them nods at Tyler when he catches Tyler’s eye. Tyler quickly looks away. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyler can see the first guard checking Wayne, who has a set of enlisted tags around his neck. They had brought of stack of them to Rau, and Rau had flipped through them, apparently getting something out of the pattern of coded numbers and letters on the front of each. He’d finally settled on one set, and handed them off to Wayne. 

Wayne had looked him in the eye. “These gonna get me killed?” He asked. 

Rau had the nerve to smile. “Guess you’ll find out.” 

Wayne’s posture in the truck is rigid. All of the soldiers have guns. If they find something amiss, Tyler thinks, he and Wayne could be dead in seconds. 

The tags read fine. The guard barely glances at his screen. He slaps a colorful sticker on the truck’s windshield. “Loading dock one, sir,” he says, and steps away. He gestures to the others back at the guardhouse, and someone touches a button and the cement barricade in front of them retracts into the ground. He sketches a final salute at Tyler. 

Tyler swallows and manages to return the gesture. As they pull forward, he mutters under his breath, “Rau said the loading dock would be – ” 

“Just behind the main building. Right.” Wayne nods. And then he laughs, it sounds a little desperate, but he’s pointing at a sign. Tyler reads it as they go past, and he lets out a nervous chuckle, too, because it’s a big arrow, labeled clearly: ALL ARRIVALS. 

There are lines painted onto the asphalt, too. Impossible to miss. Trust the Union, Tyler thinks, to be color-coded and well-organized. 

Wayne pulls into the loading dock without incident. The main building seems even larger up close. 

Tyler releases his seatbelt, hand on the door. He looks at Wayne, partner he thinks, if not friend. Wayne looks back. 

“I’ll be back,” Tyler says. 

Wayne holds his gaze. “I’ll be waiting.” 

Tyler climbs down out of the truck. The whole place is still, so quiet it feels abandoned. Tyler heads for the set of double doors at the back. Taking a breath, he holds his wrist to the card reader. There’s a pause, and then the sound of some inner mechanism releasing, the clicking of bolts. The doors slide open with a hum and hiss. 

Tyler walks inside. 

 

 

He walks into a bright, airy space. Tyler looks around. The room is not at all what he was expecting. 

The ceiling is far overhead, supported by industrial steel, but the beams form a long, graceful arc. The windows are covered with security bars, but they form a swooping, networked pattern. The shadows they cast on the floor form interlocking diamonds. The space is as big as an airplane hanger, with hallways stretching off in either direction. Sleeping loading equipment stands parked along the walls, but idle. 

Empty. 

Tyler walks to the center of space, stands in one of those gracefully delineated sunspots, and waits. 

There is another set of footsteps approaching. Tyler can hear them long before a tall, gray-haired man comes into view. “Most likely you’ll be met by the Major,” Rau had said. “Probably with one or two aides.” But this man is alone. 

When he draws close, Tyler can see he does have the gold leaf of a Major’s insignia on his lapel. He stops in front of Tyler. 

Tyler snaps off a salute. 

The Major returns it with a half-sketched casualness. “Captain Rau.” 

Tyler lifts his chin. “Sir.” 

He watches Tyler, his eyes tight on Tyler’s face, and the line of his mouth is dour and unhappy. He looks like a displeased schoolmaster. 

As the seconds tick past, Tyler can feel his blood going cold. A hard knot of fear forms in his stomach. This man is no schoolmaster, and Tyler is no truant. If he sees through Tyler, Tyler will never step out of this building again. It takes everything in Tyler to hold still. Takes every inch of self control to stay calm, when every fiber of his body is screaming for him to run. 

Tyler makes his vision go soft and unfocused, the sort of vague state he used to aim for during the anthem before games – so he could stay loose. Not focus on any one thing. Not get nervous in front of the screaming crowds. 

“You’re late,” the Major says, flat. Irritated. 

Tyler tries to swallow, has to clear his throat. “Apologies, sir. Ran into some trouble on the road.” 

The Major reaches out and takes Tyler’s arm by the wrist, turning it over to expose the place where the bandage is poking out from under Tyler’s sleeve. “Yes. I can see that.” He lets Tyler’s arm drop and returns that narrow-eyed gaze to Tyler’s face. “Bit young for those bars, aren’t you?” 

Tyler chest is too tight to get much air. He can feel sweat on his lip and his palms. And the way the Major is staring at him, it’s not with the sleepy-eyed expectation of the gate guards. He’s really looking at Tyler. He’s seeing Tyler. And if Tyler doesn’t get it together, there’s no way he’s getting out of here alive. 

There used to be Generals, sometimes, at the parties his parents threw. They’d circulate among the other guests, and Tyler was fascinated. Fascinated in a child’s way with the flash of their medals and the flutter of the colorful ribbons on their chests. They moved through the crowd in a way, he had realized even back then, was different. Like they carried their own gravity: people and things moved to get out of their way. Not the other way around. 

Dean loved them. Dean loved them for some of the same reasons Tyler did, because there are no stories like war stories. Theirs were the stories of life death. Courage and honor. 

In turn, they should have thought Dean was frivolous. After all, he was in _sport_. In _entertainment_. But they didn’t. And Tyler could see it in the way they talked to him. In the way they let him stand with them. And it was magic, in a way, but it was also very simple. As far as Tyler could tell, the only thing Dean ever did, was not let on for a single second that he was aware there was a reason he might not belong. 

A rage that rises up in him for just a moment, fierce and hot, that Dean’s not here. That Dean left Tyler on the east coast to fend for himself when he was off doing more important things. 

The fire dies as quickly as it flared. It doesn’t matter right now that Dean abandoned him, it matters what tools he armed Tyler with before he left. 

Tyler forces his shoulders back. He meets the Major’s eyes. “Alexander the Great was a king at twenty,” he says. “He’d conquered three kingdoms and the whole of the Balkans by twenty-one.” 

The Major’s expression doesn’t change. “By that metric, I guess you think you’re running right on schedule.” 

Tyler tips his head close as if imparting a secret and risks a smile. “Behind, even.” 

The Major’s mouth curves. “Good to see they’re still teaching you kids something at OCS.” He claps Tyler on the shoulder. “Gerald Horton. Let’s get started, shall we?” 

 

 

He leads Tyler down one of the halls, and the deeper they progress into the building, the more Tyler gets hit with aching waves of nostalgia that sweep over him out of the blue. A strange sense of déjà vu creeps into his bones, raises goosebumps on his skin. _He has been here_ , his mind keeps trying to tell him. Even though a Union detention center is somewhere he never could have been before. 

The scale of the place is tremendous. The building is constructed of metal and concrete, stark but not bland, an almost proud austerity, but elegant. He looks around, and there’s definitely something familiar, even though he knows – _he knows –_ beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s never been here before. But the hallway has curves he recognizes, ones that don’t have to be there, but make the space graceful. His eyes follow a silver banister that glides where it could merely be functional. The windows are placed and angled so there will always be light. 

Even their footsteps sound warm, the space somehow buffeting what should be a ringing, industrial echo. 

The realization, when it hits Tyler, makes his breath catch in his throat. The same stunned feeling filling him as when he’s put into the boards at speed. 

Between one step and the next, he sees his father. In his mind, but as clear as if he were sitting right in front of Tyler. Tyler sees him bent over his blue prints. His finger tracing those white lines. “People spend their lives inside,” he said. “We can create whole worlds for them. Why not make those worlds beautiful?” 

Tyler stops walking. His father’s fingerprints are all over this place. Tyler can see it in the lines and the light and corridors that trick the eye, that look like they run into infinity. He must have thought about every detail of this place. About the spacing of the pillars and the arching security bars. Every twist of steel. Tyler wants to stop and stare at all of it, drink it all in. His father’s work, right here, all around them. 

“Captain?” Major Horton has stopped and turned to look back at him. 

Tyler snaps back to the present. He forces a smile and starts moving again, taking long strides to catch up. “Sorry. Been on the road awhile, I guess.” 

Horton looks amused. “No doubt.” 

_Keep it together, Tyler_ . It doesn’t matter what his dad did or didn’t do. The only thing that matters right now is getting Tanner and getting out. Tyler stops looking around; he focuses instead on Horton’s profile. 

“We’re running at half-staff,” Horton says, gesturing around at the empty halls. “I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to get the Union to pay attention to anything not on the coasts.” 

“No,” Tyler agrees. 

“Staff is short. Supplies are short.” Horton stops in front of a door, just shy of the card reader. His mouth opens to speak, but he stops, interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. 

Tyler watches a group of soldiers come down the hall. A cold sweat springs up again on his skin. His eyes fix on their black, matching uniforms. At the guns at their sides. 

But the soldiers themselves are cheerful. Tyler can hear them laughing, watches one shove another as they walk in a loose group. When they catch sight of Major Horton, they settle, voices falling to murmurs and eyes downcast. A quiet chorus of “sir” as they go by. 

They dart looks at Tyler while walking past, a naked curiosity in their gaze. They’re Tyler’s age, or even younger. Tyler recognizes their camaraderie, the mischief in their voices, and the quiet and the ease with which they walk past Horton, says he leads by respect, not fear. 

Horton’s eyes track them until both the sight and sound of the group has faded. He turns back to Tyler. “Look, I’ll be frank with you, Rau. I’m going to have a lot of disappointed soldiers that you didn’t bring more in the way of supplies with you.” The look on his face says Horton might be one of them. “We’ve been on two meals a day since I can remember, and I have kids here that haven't been outside these walls in over a year. I don’t mean to complain, of course. But if you could – if you could pass that along to the Blue  & White – if there was anything you thought might increase our chances of resupply?” 

He’s looking at Tyler, like Tyler might actually have answers. Like Tyler might be able to help. 

Tyler feels utterly adrift and lost for words. In the end, he tells the truth. “To be perfectly honest, sir. I hear that from just about everyone these days.” 

Horton’s smile is very tight. “Yes.” He pats Tyler’s arm. “Yes, that's rather what I thought you might say.” He shakes his head. “It would have been nice to be able to give the boys some good news.” And he lets out a low, mirthless laugh. “I’m getting too old for this, I suppose.” 

He clears his throat and taps his wrist to the card reader. This door is fancier. It requires a code, too. And Tyler can hear a vacuum hiss as it starts to open. “The detainees are being prepared for you as we speak.” He gestures for Tyler to precede him. 

This room is brightly lit and a sterile white: floors, walls, and ceiling. A black and yellow warning line painted on the floor divides the room in half, and the prisoners are all the far side. There are four, all women, all dressed in matching gray scrubs. One wrist of each cuffed to a moveable pole near the far wall. Their ankles are hobbled. Two guards, each with gun in hand, stand watching. All four of the women are looking at the Major and at Tyler, eyes full of unconcealed hate, but they stay silent. Tyler wonders what it’s like to be that hated, day in and day out. But Major Horton just makes a vague gesture towards them and notes, “The women,” without further comment. He moves through the room to a door on the far side. “The men are through here.” 

Tyler’s heart races. There’s a part of him that wants to shove Major Horton aside and push into the room ahead of him. There’s a part of him that wants to vomit. 

Tyler stops, just past the threshold. The room holds three men, also dressed in those gray scrubs. Two guards are in the process of securing their ankles in the same way the women’s had been. Two more soldiers stand with their rifles trained on the prisoners. 

The prisoners themselves mostly look exhausted. Tyler stares at each of the three faces. None of them are Tanner. 

Major Horton says something, but Tyler can’t actually hear him. Not over the sound of his heart. He wants to yell or run, and he feels sick. He might actually be sick right here, in this room. 

The Major is walking away. “And then,” he says, “we have the one we picked up most recently.” 

Tyler has to bite his lip to keep from yelling, from gasping. Major Horton is walking to the far side of the room again. A third door. A third room. “Haven’t ID’d him,” Horton says. “No tags – sub-q or otherwise, but we’re holding him separately because he looks like a Leaguer. Got the hands and feet of a hockey player, anyway.” He throws a glance over his shoulder at Tyler. The look on his face says this is a joke, that Tyler should laugh. 

Tyler pushes his face into something he hopes resembles a smile. He nods, mute. High-pitched whine going loud in his ears. 

In the third room, Tanner is standing against the far wall. Hands bound in front of him. He looks up when the door opens, and his eyes lock on Tyler’s. 

Tyler cannot breathe. 

Tanner’s eyes are huge. There’s a bruise coloring his cheek. Tyler takes a step towards him. 

“Careful,” Major Horton says mildly. “That one spits.” 

Tyler very nearly spins and decks him. He’s so close to it, his hand is already in a fist, his arm tensed. Only the last-second realization that they’re so close to getting out of here makes him stop. And if he had any proof that Major Horton was the one to leave that mark on Tanner, even that might not have stopped him. Tyler drifts forward again until the toes of his boots are just at the edge of the yellow and black line. He makes himself stop. 

Tanner is staring at him, eyes round and red. He takes an unconscious step forward and Tyler can see his own name start to form on Tanner’s lips. Tyler makes himself look away. He makes himself stare at a point just over Tanner’s shoulder. “Try it,” he says, imagining he is speaking to Horton instead, and putting as much ice and loathing into his voice as he possibly can. “And find out exactly what it feels like to have all your teeth knocked out at once.” 

Tanner stops moving; he shrinks back against the wall. 

Behind him, the Major snorts. 

Tyler turns around. The sterility of the white room feels like a sickness. Like they’re trying to make something evil more palatable with clean lines and lights that leave no shadow. Tyler finally notices the soldier in the corner, the one with his gun loosely trained on Tanner. The one who could end Tanner’s life with the barest, quickest impulse. Tyler burns with rage. How dare he have that power. He stares, as if with his very hatred, he could set that soldier alight. 

“Is there a problem?” Major Horton’s voice has a careful level of question woven into it. 

Something tipped him off, Tyler imagines, something showing on his face. Every nerve screams at him to wheel on Horton and hurt him. All Tyler’s mind will show him are images of his friends – of Wealer and Vey and Meyer – all cut down. Burnt. Fallen. Because of what? Because of that. He looks at he gun again. Because you held it. And you didn’t care about their lives. 

Tyler thinks that if he opens his mouth, none of them will get out of this room alive. And there, in that antiseptic chamber, under the artificial glow of fluorescent, with the Major’s eyes on him, and with Tanner’s life on that knife edge, the part of Tyler that thought he couldn’t tell a lie that big flickers and fades, and finally dies. “An M9,” he says. “That’s a bit out of date, isn’t it?” 

There’s a silent pause in which Tyler can hear his own heart, battering his chest. 

“Like I said,” Major Horton says, and his voice has taken on a defensive edge. “We’re short on supply. In the grand military tradition, we make do. My men have accomplished a lot here, given very limited resources.” He’s looking at Tyler like he knows Tyler’s judging, even if, Tyler thinks, he doesn’t have a clue why. “In any case, that’s all of them. On to the paper work?” 

Tyler smiles through gritted teeth. “Excellent.” 

 

 

He signs for them. Like you might sign for a package. A form for each, in triplicate, completed by touching his aching wrist to the electronic screen. Tyler sleepwalks through the process, half-euphoric, half-dissociated. He keeps having to suppress the urge to laugh. 

Towards the end of the process, Tyler can feel where some of the sutures have pulled loose, and blood is starting to ooze again into the gauze. The last form has only the heading: UNKNOWN (# UNKNOWN) – MALE. 

Bleeding, he signs for Tanner. 

 

 

The Major walks him back to the loading dock, and the relief of seeing Wayne and the truck waiting for him is tremendous. Wayne’s leaning against the side of the truck, watching a group of soldiers load the prisoners. His posture is nonchalant, but when he catches Tyler’s eye, Tyler can see he’s rigid with the need to get out of here. 

Tyler agrees. 

The prisoners themselves stand, fixed in line, under gunpoint. Tyler watches as they shuffle forward, the shadows of the Union building striping their faces with light and dark. 

He watches as each is led to a place on the bench seats in the back of the truck, the plastic cuff on their wrist carefully unsecured from the pole and re-secured to a steel eyelet on the side of the truck. Their ankles secured in place to a bar under the seats. Nothing more than chattel, no say in their future. Each of their lives a supposed forfeit to the Union. 

Not these ones, Tyler thinks. Not today. 

 

 

Wayne drives them, very carefully out the gates. He watches the mirrors until the Union facility disappears from view, and then he exhales a hard, heartfelt, “ _Fuck_.” 

Tyler slumps back against his seat. He can still feel jitters of adrenaline under his skin. He breathes, blows out one long breath, and then another. He grabs the Union cap off his head and throws it onto the dash. “Yeah.” A strange, shivery sensation fills his blood – Tanner is just behind him. Sitting just on the other side of that steel divider. In the dark. Tyler can’t stop seeing his face, and his eyes – wide in that white room. In that room that Tyler’s father built. He sinks his face into his hands, and he thinks he might shake apart right here in the front seat. 

Next to him, Wayne is vibrating, too, a manic sort of grin on his face. He shakes his head. “They filled the truck up with gas.” His voice sounds like he can’t quite believe it. “Tyler, they asked if I wanted cigarettes for the road.” 

Tyler notices he’s got one tucked behind his ear. 

Wayne shakes his head again. “They filled up the truck with _gas._ ” 

Like it’s a miracle. And maybe it is. 

Tyler chokes on something that’s almost a laugh. He puts his hands over his mouth, like that could curb the effervescent noises trying to escape. 

“Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus fucking _Christ_ , I want out of this city before we use up all our luck.” 

“Yes,” Tyler agrees, and it’s heartfelt. 

“Let’s go drop these people off and get the fuck out of here.” 

There is one other thing. “And get Captain Rau.” 

Wayne glances over. “And get Rau.” His eyes catch on Tyler, just maybe a second longer than they have to, and then he takes them out onto the open road. 

 

 

It takes a hundred years, or maybe just under an hour to make it back to Katrina’s compound in the south of the city. From the outside, the building had turned out to be an industrial, four-story thing, with the soulless façade of an institution. Half of it was buried under the debris of its neighbor’s collapse, the rubble making a basement of what would have been the west side of the first two levels. Tyler had been too nervous to pay much attention when they drove away, but he observes it closely on their return. Time stretches; in those last hundred yards, he ages years. 

As they draw near, a lookout goes skittering back inside the building. They’re waved directly into the garage. Wayne halts the truck in the center of the empty aisle. 

Tyler is out the door before Wayne has the key fully turned. The lights are on, but the fluorescent is weak after the bright sun. Tyler blinks, trying to make his eyes adjust. A crowd has gathered, he can hear the thrum and murmur of voices, although with the shadows, it’s hard to tell how many people are actually present. He has to push through them to make his way to the back. The doors of the truck are already being forced open, and eight people blink out them from the even darker interior. 

There are voices everywhere – all of them much louder, all at once – a babble that loses coherency in the chaos, echoes off the cement halls to become just noise, but Tyler is already hauling himself up onto the bumper, dodging the swing of the door to pull himself inside. And he looks, scanning the faces in the dark – 

_“Tyler.”_

Tyler would recognize his voice anywhere. 

The relief that fills him is so much – such a solid thing – that washing over him, it almost knocks him down. Makes his legs unsteady underneath him. He navigates blind towards the sound, and he finds Tanner in the thick, heady dark, and he holds him. 

Tanner’s hands are still bound, and his feet are still hobbled, binding him to his place on the bench, but Tyler grabs him and holds him. He winds his arms through Tanner’s arms and around him. 

Their faces press close. Their faces are wet, are slick. Tanner is gasping, his teeth chatter and his breath hitches in his chest with such a violence that he’s hard to hold onto. His fingers dig into the part of Tyler’s arm they can reach and grip like iron bands. “You came back,” he says. 

“Yes.” Tyler breathes the word into the flushed, slippery skin of Tanner’s throat. 

“You came back and got me.” And it’s like something snaps in Tanner’s voice. Just gives way, and it comes out broken, cracked wide open. Something important spilling out of him, raw and young and frightened. 

Tyler moans. “Yes,” he says. Tanner’s face is hot where he touches it. Feverish where he presses his forehead to Tanner’s, and Tyler can feel movement all around them, can feel light rocking of people moving, stepping down into freedom. He can sense people pressed all around them, the heat of their bodies and the smell of close air. 

Tanner tastes like salt, when Tyler kisses him. From one of them crying. From both. 

“God, Tyler,” Tanner says, and then someone is very near to them. A voice murmuring near Tyler’s ear. Tyler can’t divide his focus enough to make out the words. He closes his eyes and moves aside just enough for them to free Tanner’s hands, a flash of a blade cutting through plastic cuffs. Tanner falls forward, wraps his arms around Tyler. “Tyler, you were terrifying.” 

Tyler holds his face again. Tyler can feel the people still near them, still watching them, and he does not care. He kisses Tanner again, a careful press, a soft touch amongst all these hard edges _. I love him._ He closes his eyes, listens to the sound of him breathing. _He was lost. He is returned to me._

“You came and got me.” Tanner’s voice is something terrible and amazing. 

“Yes,” Tyler says. “Of course.” 

 

 

Tanner stays glued to his side. Tyler can feel him shivering, even though it’s not that cold. He puts an arm around Tanner’s shoulders, keeps him close. “I brought you your people,” he tells Katrina. 

The people in question have already started to depart, as have the people who came to see them arrive. The echoes of their voices as they disappear deeper into the building are fading. Katrina has been watching them as their retreat. She turns her attention to Tyler. “You did,” she agrees. She looks at him, and then at Tanner tucked against his side, and then at Wayne. “You’ll be leaving now, I assume?” 

Tyler says, “After you give us Rau.” 

She smiles at that. She looks at Tyler’s face, with a pause and parted lips, like she’s considering and dismissing a host of things to say. 

“He got us in. And out,” Tyler says. And Tyler used him, sure, but he was honest about it. And has no intention of breaking a promise. “He kept his word.” 

“So he did.” Her mouth curls into another smile. “Let’s continue that trend, then. Wait here.” 

When she returns, she has Rau with her. She brings him down to the garage herself. Alone. She’s wearing a gun on her hip now, and his hands are bound behind his back. He casts quick, little sidelong glances at her the whole way down the hall, as though he’s not sure what he’s being led towards. When they draw close, he stares hard at Tanner, who has his face turned into Tyler’s chest. He narrows his eyes at the way Tyler’s arm holds him close. 

Tyler does not give one single, solitary fuck. 

“As requested,” Katrina says. “One Union soldier. Unharmed. Yours to do with what you like.” 

Tanner looks up at her words. He looks at Rau, seeing him for the first time. Then he looks at Tyler. 

Tyler says, “Thank you. For helping.” Rau is still staring at him. “You can go. Obviously.” The words sound awkward in his head and worse out loud. He gestures half-heartedly to the doorway that leads out of the garage. “Or, I mean whatever you want.” 

Rau darts a quick look to the door, the look on his face clearly the one of a man trying to judge distance, foot speed, and sightlines all at once. He turns to Katrina. “How do I know there’s not somebody waiting to kill me or grab me as soon as I walk out that door?” 

Tyler clears his throat. “We’re going north. We’ll take you, if you want. As far north as you want to go.” 

Rau looks at him with open astonishment at that. His eyes flick to Wayne, who doesn’t offer any objection. “Okay,” Rau says, carefully. “In that case, let’s go.” 

Katrina produces a knife. She flips open the blade, and takes a moment of naked amusement in the way Rau flinches. She cuts his hands free, one sure motion. 

Rau takes two quick steps to stand nearer to Wayne. 

Katrina watches this retreat, amused. “You don’t want to say thank you?” 

Rau glares at her. “You killed my partner. I’m not thanking you for shit." 

Her face goes serious. “You broke this world. Be glad you’re getting out alive.” 

Rau stares her down. “Do you know what this place was before you took it over? This very place?” He gestures around them, at the building they’re standing in. “Before the Union came in?” 

She doesn’t answer him, but she refuses to drop her eyes. 

“It was a prison for children.” He shakes his head. “This world wasn’t so perfect before the Union took over.” 

They could be here all day, Tyler thinks, and find nothing but a million new reasons to hate each other. He tightens his arm around Tanner. 

“Come on.” Tyler tells them. “It’s time to go.” 

 

 

They travel north until they reach the place where the country turns from more-or-less Union controlled to more-or-less wild. Here, among the trees, they pull off to the side of the road and spray paint over the truck’s Union crest. Tyler does the work, but all of them watch. Watch the colors disappear, re-masked by fresh paint. 

They leave Rau a mile or so outside the Union post in Milwaukee. “Here’s where we start going west for a bit,” Wayne says. 

Rau nods at each of them. 

“What are you going to tell them?” Tyler asks. 

Rau squints. “The truth, I guess. That I got hijacked by a bunch rebels. That they stole my iPerT and kicked me to the curb here.” 

Tyler supposes that is the truth, if a rather selective version. “How’s that gonna go over?” 

“Well.” Rau grins. “We’ll have to see.” He looks around. The evergreens are thick and tall and grow close to the road. The sun is diving, and the sky where it is visible above the points of the trees flares pink and orange and a dazzling red. Rau takes a deep breath, pulling in the clean scent of pine. 

When he looks back, it’s at Tyler. “Not a whole lot of landmarks up here. But you keep the north star in sight, and you’ll get through this part of the country just fine.” Then he holds out his hand for Tyler to shake, and they stand there a moment, next to the truck, his hand in Rau’s and neither one of them, Tyler thinks, quite willing to wish the other good luck. 

“Stay out of trouble,” Rau says finally. 

“Stay safe,” Tyler answers. He lets go of his hand. He climbs back into the truck, making room for Tanner on the bench seat. 

He has Wayne behind the wheel on one side of him, Tanner tight against him on the other, the open road in front of him, and a battlefield behind. 

It will not be the last, Tyler thinks. 

But Tyler is no longer waiting, will no longer be made weak by withholding. Tyler is moving forward, pushing onward into that unstoried land. He goes toward Dean, and he thinks he will not be bitter about being used, but think instead about how nothing is gifted outright, and how he was turned and shaped to survive. He thinks about his father, and he thinks he will not cry that he was abandoned, but know that he was he was loved before the rift. 

He looks down at his wrist, and at his hand with his fingers threaded through Tanner’s. He looks at Tanner, resting against his side, and he thinks, _I will not let our story be a tragedy_. 

The truck rumbles beneath them. 

Wayne takes the wheel. Tyler looks forward, his eyes on the spray of stars winking into being in the sky overhead. 

And under those cool and distant stars, they burn their way west. 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple quick notes:
> 
> * I updated a line in the previous chapter (Chapter 2) to fix a continuity error. Hopefully, you won't even notice ;) 
> 
> * Tyler, when contemplating whether/how to save Tanner, steals a line from _Huckleberry Finn_. 
> 
> * Langauge in the very last bit borrows from Robert Frost's [The Gift Outright](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/237942). And, jeez. I know it gets a little purple there in the end, but almost 40K later, I felt justified. 
> 
> * Finally, once again because it bears repeating, it means the world to me that you're reading all this. _Thank you_


	4. And to the Republic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **edits on 12/31/16. I realized that somehow in the process of translating this chapter from docx to html, around 2000 words disappeared? The missing bits were mainly (and I'm trying to be unspoilery here) from the first conversation between Mike, Irene and Tyler; the intro to the scene set in the clinic; and the middle of Tanner & Tyler's argument in the dining hall. ugh, technology. **
> 
>  
> 
> Hi. Yes. I have a whole list of excuses why this took forever, but none of them are particularly interesting. And, yes, it’s part 4/5. I really wanted this to be a four-part story, but things just didn’t work out that way. So there will be a chapter 5 (probably another 30-40K or so) forthcoming. I don’t have a timetable for the final chapter, but let’s just say less time than this one took, okay? 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience, and to everyone who has continued to let me know that they’ve enjoyed this series, it means the world to me.
> 
> A special thank you to Kelsey, for kicking things off. To othersideofthis (have you read [her fic?](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis) Read it all, it’s amazing.) for being a fresh pair of eyes at the end. 
> 
> And of course, to Zoe, who puts in the page numbers. 
> 
> **Content warnings:** Themes of depression/mental illness. Violence. Gun violence. Domestic violence. Description of injury.
> 
> Oh, and a warning specifically for the mechanically-inclined: I made a lot of stuff up :)

* * *

 

For two days and two nights they drive through the northern forests of the Red & Green. And for two days and two nights, Tanner doesn’t speak.

The days stretch out, feel interminable – even though Tyler knows each day is actually shorter than the last. The daylight slips away quicker, and the shadows of the trees that line the road lengthen and get snuffed out by dark earlier and earlier.

But that, Tyler thinks, is about all that changes.

Ever since they turned northwest, it’s been nothing but endless pine forest. A curtain of green. Drab gray-green in morning twilight. Deep, velvety dark green in the shadows. Bristly yellow-green where it’s dry – but green. The tree trunks make a solid wall on either side of the road, blocking anything else that might be out there from view.

Tyler shifts on the truck’s bench seat. His ass is numb. His back hurts. His wrist aches. The monotony of the scenery is giving him a headache. If this great swath of forest is all that’s lying between them and the Lake, the least the trees could do is make it interesting.

Is it too much to ask for a little color? Maybe a flower here and there?

Tyler shifts again, and Wayne glances over at him. The three of them are packed into the Union truck’s bench seat, and since Tyler’s in the middle, he can’t move at all without his elbow hitting Wayne or his knee edging into Tanner.

Tyler forces himself to still, and tucks his arms closer to his sides. “Sorry.”

Wayne shrugs off Tyler’s apology and rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. If Tyler’s tired of watching the scenery, then Wayne’s definitely tired of driving through it. Their first night back on the road after Chicago, Tyler had thought Wayne might have Tanner take over, and push on through the night, like the two of them had done all the way from Connecticut. But when they’d halted for dinner, Wayne had taken a long look at Tanner’s face, and whatever he’d seen – maybe the tightness around Tanner’s mouth, or the redness of his eyes – it made him say they’d be staying put for the night. The only reason he’d given out loud was, “I don’t want to use the headlights if we can avoid it. Might draw attention.”

But Tyler thinks maybe he was worried about Tanner. Tyler is worried about Tanner.

Wayne asks, with the tired resignation of someone looking for any sort of distraction, “What are you thinking about?”

And because Tyler doesn’t want to say _Tanner_ in front of Tanner, he shrugs. His eyes drift back to the scenery. “I was just wishing there were flowers.”

Wayne throws him a brief, dubious look. “When we get to the Lake,” he says, voice pointed, as if he thinks this is what Tyler should really be focused on, “you’re going to have a lot to discuss with Lombardi.”

He sounds like he’s trying to make some kind of point, but Tyler just looks back at him and raises an eyebrow, because _duh._ What _doesn’t_ he have to discuss with Dean?

Wayne rolls his eyes, but he’s clearly warming to the topic. “You’ll also meet Mike Richards. Probably some of the other guys from the Black, too.” He pauses, groping for words. “And you need to start thinking about what comes next, you know?”

On Tyler’s other side, Tanner twitches, a full-body shiver, like he’s flinching away from Wayne’s question. Tyler stares at Tanner’s profile. Through this whole exchange, Tanner’s eyes have stayed fixed out the window.

That doesn’t mean he’s not listening, though. Tyler waits to see if Tanner might say something, might finally break his silence. But he doesn’t. Which is a shame, because Tyler himself doesn’t have any particularly satisfying answer to Wayne’s question.

This isn’t the first time Wayne has hinted that Tyler should start thinking about the future, and Tyler _has_ thought about it. A hundred times a day he imagines it. His arrival at the Lake. His parents, smiling and healthy and waiting for him. Their joyous and tear-stained reunion. Dean patting him on the back, and saying _Good job getting here_. How they’ll have a long, serious talk. Dean will be impressed with everything he and Tanner have been through. He’ll nod at Tyler with his serious, gray eyes, and then Dean and Tyler’s parents will explain everything. They’ll explain why they had to leave Toronto, and why they had to leave him in Manchester. And it’ll be a good reason. Everything will make sense.

That’s how it’s going to go. That’s how it has to go – because how else could it go? Why else would Dean go to such effort to get him to the Lake? Tyler says, “What comes next is I talk everything over with Dean.”

“Okay, but what are you going to do _after_ you talk to Dean?”

Tyler’s mouth twists. Wayne’s question is irritating because Tyler doesn’t actually know what happens after he and Dean talk. Presumably, Dean will – no _definitely_ Dean will have some sort of plan for fixing everything. Then there’s a period of vagueness in which Tyler imagines things will somehow get fixed. And then the endgame is that he and Tanner will settle with his parents. Or at least near his parents. If not in their old house in their old neighborhood, then somewhere like it.

Tyler will work, doing – something – with Dean, maybe. Or with his father. And Tanner – maybe Tanner would like to go to school. He’s smart. He likes to read. And in this future where everything is fixed, he could do that. He could study whatever he liked.

Tyler revels for a moment in the fantasy of Tanner, studious, frowning at a table crowded with books and notes. Tyler interrupting just long enough to bring him coffee and help work the knots out of his shoulders.

“You still with me, Toffoli?” Wayne elbows him.

Tyler glares. “Look, I’ll figure it out after I talk to Dean. He’s probably got plans, or something.”

Wayne snorts. “Yeah, I’ll bet he does.”

Tyler ignores that. Once they get to the Lake, he’ll also have a chance to finally talk to Tanner. A place where they can finally talk without worrying about being attacked, or watched, or overheard. Tyler closes his eyes. In his mind, the Lake has an idyllic, winding shoreline, where he and Tanner will spend long hours walking, and Tanner will finally voice all the things that have been bothering him, and Tyler, at least in his version of this scenario, will know exactly the words to say that will make everything better.

But even in the confines of his imagination, Tyler knows this isn’t particularly likely. First of all – winter is approaching fast and hard, and this part of the world seems to subscribe very thoroughly to the idea of _cold and gray._ And second of all – it’s Tanner.

Lately, Tanner makes clams seem open and inviting.

Tyler looks back out the window.

Nothing new to see.

Nothing but trees.

 

 

That evening, they arrange themselves into what have, over the last two nights, become their usual sleeping positions: Wayne in the front of the truck, wedged across the truck’s bench seat, and Tyler and Tanner lying side by side in the back, army blankets spread underneath them to block the worst of the chill.

Tyler props the doors to back of the truck open, even though it’s cold. Having them open is better than the claustrophobic, closed-in feeling of the back with the doors shut. And the first night, until Tyler had made a point of positioning the doors as far open as they’d go, and propping them that way so they couldn’t swing shut, Tanner had looked like he might refuse to get in at all.

And Tyler’s grateful for the moonlight the open doors let in – at night, the woods look thick and black, and the unending spread of them feels ominous. It’s hard to look at them and not remember lying in the damp earth after they’d fled Manchester, trying to be still and silent, and terrified that the pounding of his own heart was going to give them away.

He settles back onto his blanket. Even through the fabric, Tyler can feel the rivets in the metal floor. He closes his eyes and lets himself long for just one moment for the bed he’d had back in Quick’s cabin, tucked up under the eaves, with its soft quilts and down pillows. He lets himself remember Tanner, on the nights he stayed with Tyler until Tyler fell asleep, warm and steady and soft beside him.

He looks over at the dark shape of Tanner lying next to him. They’re both gross: cold and stiff and unwashed, and it doesn’t exactly inspire romance, but –

But they do have some privacy back here. And it would be nice to hold him. To be able to offer some kind of comfort. Except that Tanner hasn’t made any move to touch him over the last two nights, lying so still and silent next to him that Tyler might as well have been alone.

Tyler is the one who got them into this. Tyler frowns up at the dark ceiling. He’s the one who almost got Tanner hurt, or locked away forever, or worse. So it’s on him to fix things. If something needs to change, then it’s on Tyler to change it. To make things better. To say something. To do something.

Except that Tyler doesn’t have any idea what to do. He turns, and watches Tanner’s chest rise in a long, deep breath. He looks so far away.

Tyler reaches out and pokes him in the ribs. “Hey.”

Tanner glances over at him, surprised.

Tyler tries to smile. “I just – ” Well, now it seems like a dumb move, but at least it was an opening. He shuffles onto his side, facing Tanner. “You’ve been so quiet. What’s up with you?”

Tanner blinks at him, eyes wide and startled in the dark. Tyler reaches his hand out again, more uncertain this time, resting it carefully on Tanner’s shoulder. “Tanner?”

Tanner shivers. Tyler starts to pull his hand back, but Tanner catches it.

It’s too dark to really make out much about the expression on Tanner’s face, but his eyes are fixed on Tyler’s arm. Tyler feels his touch creep across his palm, then slowly down Tyler’s wrist. His fingers trace over the bandages, feather light.

“You got hurt.” His voice is rough.

It’s startling to hear him actually speak.

Tyler has to swallow. “To get into the Transfer Station – the place you were held – I needed an iPerT. I had to cut my arm to put it in.” He doesn’t want Tanner to think he’d been in danger. He doesn’t want Tanner to think he’d been forced. “I did it to myself.”

Tanner’s fingertips hesitate over the wound.

Tyler whispers, “It’ll heal. I’ll be fine. And I got you back – it was worth it.”

Tanner’s fingers tighten, just the barest ounce of pressure.

“Tanner.” Tyler pulls his arm out of Tanner’s hand, ignoring the twinge that runs the length of his arm. He reaches out to touch Tanner’s face instead, fumbling a bit until he finds Tanner’s cheek, cool from the chill night air – and wet. A hot, hard lump forms in Tyler’s throat. “I’m _fine_. We’re fine. We made it out.” He draws as close to Tanner as he can manage, pressing their foreheads together. “Come on,” he says, aiming for a tone that will make Tanner laugh. “My hair’s in worse shape than my wrist.”

Tanner makes a choked noise, something that might have been a laugh, strangled by a tightening throat. One of his hands drifts across Tyler’s scalp. “You do look different.”

Tyler leans into the touch. Looking at Tanner, he’s filled up with something that makes his chest ache, makes his throat hurt so much it’s hard to speak. “It’ll grow back.” He reaches for Tanner’s shoulders.

Tanner shivers under Tyler’s hands. And Tyler can hear him breathing, rough and unsteady, and he can hear the faint, telltale sounds of someone trying to cry without noise.

“Tanner.” Tyler tries to hold him, winding his arms around him the best he can. “Tanner, hey.” He can’t hear Tanner crying without wanting to cry too. It hurts. It burns behind his eyes.

He doesn’t have any words for this, and so he holds still, holds onto Tanner, where Tanner lets him, offering what comfort he can in the dark.

 

 

On the fourth day, the road gives out.

It’s been nothing but craterous wreckage pitted with gravel for miles, but on the fourth day it gives out entirely, first becoming dirt, then just a pair of ruts eaten into the earth, and then even these fade into an uninterrupted path of grass and rock that winds through the trees.

Every turn of the road, Tyler’s been expecting the trees to break and reveal – something. Some end point. Some signpost that says: _You’re Here!_

He wasn’t expecting the road to end.

Tyler narrows his eyes at what’s in front of them. “Seriously?”

Wayne brings the truck down to a crawl and finally a halt. He rolls his window down and Tanner follows suit. The cool breeze feels good in the close air of the cab. None of them have bathed for several days. Tyler’s looking forward to getting somewhere with soap. And preferably hot water. And preferably soon. “I thought you knew where we were going?”

Wayne looks at him with an expression that Tyler remembers from the very, _very_ many times Wayne dumped him on his ass at the rink back in Scarborough.

“Sorry,” Tyler mutters. He didn’t get much sleep last night. Even after Tanner had fallen asleep – or at least laid still and quiet enough to pass for asleep – Tyler had laid awake. In the dark, the woods looked way too much like the ones outside of Manchester for Tyler to get any decent rest.

And right on cue, his mind offers up the memory of gunshots and fire and breathlessness, and all too easily the adrenaline is right there – humming under his skin, clogging his throat, and making the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Enough. Tyler makes himself stare at the trunks and the swaying branches. It’s just a forest. Nothing moving out there. Nothing to see, and nothing to hear but the sound of the wind through the trees.

Tyler shifts again in the seat, rocking back and forth, knee jostling.

“Stop fidgeting.” Wayne is letting the truck idle. He doesn’t look at Tyler. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel and the truck rumbles around them. His mouth is a flat line, and Tyler can see the exact moment he thinks, _fuck it._

Wayne presses his foot to the gas pedal again, and the truck powers on, climbing easily over the terrain. As long as the gap between the trees stays wide enough, they can pass. Wayne’s mouth twists into something like a bitter smile.

Union technology at its finest.

They drive on, slower than they have been going, with the windows down. Tanner rests his head against the door. By day, he’s returned to his usual silent state. The wind pushes the hair back off his forehead. His eyes are half-closed, and his face, for once, looks relaxed, as though if nothing else, he feels good to be moving.

Tyler’s stomach is growling long before Wayne stops, but as the shadows grow long and thick, Wayne does finally bring the truck to a halt and cut the engine. Tanner is out of the cab in an instant, and Tyler follows. He rolls his neck, presses his hands to his spine until it pops, rubs at the dull ache in his wrist. Under their bandaging, his stitches itch.

From the other side of the truck, Tyler hears Wayne groan, he can see him stretching, fingers interlaced above his head.

All of them are ready to be there.

Tyler turns his attention to the compartment of the truck they’ve been keeping their makeshift camping gear in – gear they found packed in the truck itself and a few items on permanent loan from Katrina – but Wayne waves a hand to get his attention.

“Let’s just eat something,” Wayne says. “And then push on.”

Tyler narrows his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to drive after dark.” Plus, Tyler’s really not excited about more hours in the truck.

Wayne tips his head. “Yeah, but we’re almost there. I think we can make it to the edge of the Lake tonight, if we push.”

 _That_ is good news. Tyler grins at him, and starts to dig out the MREs instead. _Finally._ He looks over his shoulder at Tanner, who has wandered to the edge of the clearing they’ve stopped in. “You hear that?” Tyler calls to him. “We’re almost there.”

Tanner half-turns, but his eyes stay on the shadows and the twilight woods. Squinting, Tyler can just can just make out his profile. He doesn’t expect an answer, but it still makes his chest tight that Tanner doesn’t give one.

“Come on, Tanner. We gotta eat,” Tyler calls again, waving one of the foil-wrapped packets in his direction.

This time, Tanner tears himself away from his study of the trees. He joins Tyler and Wayne, sitting next to Tyler on the bumper of the truck, and accepts the MRE Tyler holds out. “We’re getting close,” Tyler repeats. Soft, and encouraging, like maybe Tanner just hadn’t heard before.

Tanner looks at both of them, but without focus, and right when Tyler thinks this is all the response out of Tanner they’re going to get, Tanner says, “Usually there are crows when we stop.”

Wayne’s in the midst of pouring water into one of the thermal instant coffee packets, but he pauses what he’s doing to give Tyler a pointed, sidelong look, silently asking Tyler what _that’s_ supposed to mean.

As if Tyler knew what was going on in Tanner’s head. If Tyler had a dollar for every time he wished he know what was going on in Tanner’s head, he could buy their way out of these fucking woods. Tyler frowns at Tanner. “What do you – ”

There’s a snap, the sound of breaking twigs. All three of them look up, and Tyler has just enough time to think: _don’t trust the woods. Never trust the fucking woods_ – before a man steps out from between the trees.

Or, maybe not quite a man – his face is young – but dangerous regardless, because he has a gun. A small, silver revolver.

It catches the last of the light, and it’s definitely pointed at them.

Tyler’s skin crawls with sudden adrenaline, no sound but the pulse in his ears. He freezes.

The boy with the gun is dressed in dark greens and browns. If he were still, he’d be almost impossible to see, but he moves forward with slow, cautious steps. His eyes flick from Wayne to Tyler to Tanner, but the barrel of the gun doesn’t waver.

He stops just a few feet from them. Nothing moves but the steam rising from Wayne’s coffee.

Tyler’s heart is a freight train, a boulder in his chest. He can feel the hair on his arms standing on end, and the panicked impulse to _run_ –

Into that taut silence, Wayne sighs. Loudly.

The boy flinches, freezes for just for a second, then swings the gun to aim squarely at Wayne.

Wayne remains perfectly motionless, one of his hands is holding the cup of coffee he just made, still steaming in the cool air. The other is raised and turned palm-out for the boy to see.

And with his hands held motionless, Wayne smiles.

Tyler stares, afraid to say anything. Afraid to even let his jaw drop, but Wayne’s expression is unmistakable. A flash of white teeth, visible even in the fading light.

Moving with an aching slowness, eyes intent on the boy the whole time, Wayne brings the coffee to his mouth and takes a sip. His mouth twists at the taste. “You know,” he says, voice easy, as if the boy were a guest they’d been expecting. “I’m getting really tired of people pointing guns at me.” He shakes his head, radiating an air of deep disappointment. “There’s been way too much of that this week.”

The boy doesn’t move, but he does start to look more uncertain.

“You’re from around here, right?” Wayne continues. “Probably in charge of keeping trouble out? Well, we’re not trouble. We’re just passing though. We’re not Union – ”

The boy’s eyebrows draw together. His gaze flicks to the truck and back again.

Wayne nods. “I know. I know. It’s – borrowed, let’s say.” He takes another sip of coffee and shrugs, shoulders loose. “But like I said, just passing through.”

Tyler can see the boy’s posture ease, ever so slightly, some of the tension draining from his grip on the gun. Tyler steals a look at Tanner. Tanner is white as a ghost, just as still as Tyler.

Wayne goes on, calm but adamant. “You have every right to protect your home. I respect that – I respect that a lot. But I can promise you, we don’t have any intention of causing trouble.”

The boy looks like he’s vacillating. He looks unsure. Silently, Tyler wills this boy to believe Wayne’s telling the truth. Wayne _is_ telling the truth. Please, Tyler thinks. _Please._

Wayne smiles again.

The boy shifts. The barrel of the gun starts to lower.

Tyler lets out the breath he’s been holding, so slow his lungs burn. His shoulders want to sag, he’s so exhausted. They’re so close. They’re so close to getting to the Lake, so close to getting through all this –

Something blurs into motion to Tyler’s right, just where Tanner is standing – or _was_ standing, because Tanner has lunged forward, too fast for Tyler to react. Tanner rushes the boy, his shoulder catching him hard in the center of his chest. Tyler sees light glint off metal, he sees hands grappling for the gun –

Tyler feels embedded in concrete, stuck and too slow. The boy and Tanner are turning, struggling, a tangle of limbs. Tyler yells and starts forward, but Wayne blocks his path, edging in front of him. Tyler tries to push past. “Move!” His eyes are locked on the scene just in front of them. “Tanner!” Tyler pushes again, but Wayne grips his shoulders hard. Adrenaline floods Tyler, everything sharp and distinct, and –

A loud crack splits the air.

So loud it puts tears in his eyes, and all sound is swallowed by the ringing in his ears. For one impossibly long moment, no one moves.

Tyler can see the gun in Tanner’s hand. He’s tackled the boy backwards, but they’re still only a few feet away. He can see Tanner’s blank, white face. He can see the boy, his face turned away, hands half brought up to cover it, as if he’d been frozen mid-wince.

The roaring in Tyler’s ears grows.

Next to him, Wayne slumps, going down all at once onto one knee.

Wayne gasps, audible at last over the fading ring. He presses his hands to his stomach. And yet it still doesn’t – it still doesn’t click, until Wayne hisses out a curse from between clenched teeth.

And then Tyler sees the blood.

Tyler goes hot, then cold. His vision tunnels, graying at the edges. He stares first at Wayne, then at Tanner.

Tanner gapes back at him, mouth hanging open, gun still held in motionless hands.

“Why did you do that?” Tyler demands. They were so close. They were so, _so_ fucking close – “Why did you do that?”

Tanner shakes his head. A helpless, pointless, _useless_ gesture.

Tyler looks back to Wayne, a cold pit of terror growing in his stomach. Wayne’s head is bent. His face hidden. Very carefully, Tyler touches Wayne’s shoulder.

“Get the gun,” Wayne says.

Tyler doesn’t move. Tyler’s not sure he can move.

Wayne swallows, an audible, sticking sound. “Tyler. Go get the gun.”

Tyler makes himself take one step. Then two. Then he’s taking the gun from Tanner’s loose grasp. Tanner doesn’t resist. Free of the weight, his hand falls limply to his side, and his eyes never leave Wayne.

Tyler looks back at Wayne, but Wayne’s head is down. He seems focused on breathing; he’s not offering any more direction.

And if he waits for Wayne to tell him what to do, all that’s going to happen is Tyler is going to get to watch Wayne bleed out, all over the forest floor. For a moment, the thud of Tyler’s heart threatens to swallow all other sounds. It’s going to be pitch black soon. Wayne is on the ground, bleeding. Tanner is a statue, and they’re so close, they can’t stop here – they have to –

They cannot stop here.

Tyler shivers. He levels the gun at the boy. “Do you know the way to the Lake?”

The boy stares at him, wide-eyed, blank.

Tyler takes one step toward him, gun held out in front of him. “I said, do you know – ”

The boy nods, jerky and fast. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Lots of things need to happen. All at once. Tyler takes a breath. “Okay.” He looks at Tanner. “Start the truck.”

Tanner doesn’t argue. He doesn’t hesitate. He just goes.

Tyler looks back to the boy. “Help me with him.” He nods at Wayne. He hesitates a moment, then puts the gun in his pocket. Together, they help Wayne into the back of the truck. “Okay. Okay.” Tyler grapples for the gun again, not sure if he should have it in his hand. Not wanting to touch it. He leads the boy back to the passenger side of the truck’s cab. “Get in.”

Tanner glances over at both of them. His hands are on the wheel.

Tyler closes the door of the cab behind the boy. “Tell him how to get to the Lake,” he says, nodding at Tanner. “Get us there, and we’ll let you go.”

“Okay.” It’s barely a whisper.

Tyler sprints to the truck’s back end. He hops in and hauls the doors behind him shut, plunging the back of the truck into darkness. He scrambles to the divider in front and pounds his palm against the steel. “Go!”

The truck lurches into motion.

Tyler stumbles. They pick up speed quickly, bouncing over uneven ground. There’s nothing to hold onto.

On the floor, Wayne groans.

Tyler kneels. The only light comes from the thin slits near the ceiling, and he has to feel along the ground until he finds Wayne’s shoulder. Tyler crouches next to him. “Are you okay?” The words sound stupid as soon as they come out of his mouth.

“I’m not great,” Wayne snaps. “Your batshit friend shot me.”

Tyler winces, hands hovering just over Wayne’s side. “He didn’t mean to.”

Wayne coughs something that might have started as a laugh. It turns into a hissing groan. “Where?” Tyler asks, and then he reaches down, feeling his way down Wayne’s arms until he finds where his hands are pressed – low, just above his hip, close to his side.

Tyler covers the spot with his hands. The dark is so thick Tyler can’t see the wound, but Wayne’s body feels fever-hot. And under his rucked shirt, Wayne’s side is wet and slick. Tyler can feel what feels like a pulse under his fingers. He can feel the muscles of Wayne’s abdomen quivering erratically. Hot fluid wells through his fingers and Tyler presses harder. He can hear Wayne’s panting breath. Wayne groans as he lets his hands slip out from under Tyler’s, falling limply to the floor.

Tyler’s mind skips and jumps – they’re so close to the Lake, and things were fine – just an instant ago – everything was fine and Tyler was complaining about being _bored_. Tyler will take bored. He’ll be bored the rest of his life and happy about it, if they can just get through this.

The air fills with a metallic tang that catches in Tyler’s nose, in his throat –

He can feel the engine rumbling and the swaying sensation of motion. The truck jostles, and Tyler’s hands slip. He replaces them, presses down harder against Wayne’s side.

Wayne hisses. He starts to yell, but his breath fails him. Tyler can hear him gasping, thick and wet. “Fuck,” Wayne says. He half lifts his head, then lets it fall, making a dull thud against the metal floor. “Fuck.”

“We’ll get there soon,” Tyler says, even though he doesn’t know how long it’ll be. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. It already feels like they’ve spent hours in this trapped dark, even though it can’t have been that long. “And there’ll be help at the Lake.” He says this too as if he knows.

He hopes.

Wayne breathes like it’s work. Tyler can feel the rise and fall of his chest, but he doesn’t correct Tyler on either point. Wayne’s coughs. “When you get to the Lake – ”

Tyler’s blood goes to ice. “ _We_. We’re both getting there.”

Wayne lifts a hand and lets it fall, as if this is all the argument he can manage. “The important thing is that _you_ do – ”

“ _We_ are. You’re going to be fine.” Tyler’s throat hurts, it’s a sharp and horrible feeling, a stabbing ice-pick lodged just under his skin.

“Just fucking listen to me.” Wayne takes one breath, and then another, but stays silent.

He’s conserving his strength, Tyler tells himself. He’ll be fine. He has to be fine. “You’re gonna be just fine,” Tyler says. “We’ll be at the Lake soon. They’ll be able to help.”

The Lake has to be able to help. They have to.

Wayne’s breathing is quicker now. Shallower. His throat works like he’s trying to speak, but the words are sticking.

The truck has slowed. Tyler can feel it turning more frequently. They’re on a downslope, and Tyler braces himself, trying to keep both of them from sliding.

Wayne groans against this pressure, a low, raw sound. “Lakeshore path.” The words are a slow rasp. “Almost there.”

The slope must have been the giveaway. “That’s good.” Tyler doesn’t dare lift his hands, but he smiles, hoping Wayne can hear it in his voice.

The truck lurches one final time and stops.

In the dark, Tyler waits. The doors swing open. The moon is up, and even the moonlight seems bright now. Tyler blinks. Tanner stands in front of him, his form made gray and indistinct. Over his shoulder, Tyler can see rocks and pebbly sand. Tanner’s driven the truck almost to the edge of the water, stopped the truck parallel to the shoreline, right at the foot of pier that stretches out into the lake, its end shrouded in dark.

The boy hovers a few feet away. He points towards the water. “Head on out that pier,” he says. “They’ll see you coming. They always do.” He stands, like he’s waiting for Tyler to say something. A dismissal.

Tyler wants to laugh. His hands are still pressed to Wayne, the gun long forgotten in one of his pockets – and this boy, still standing around like a valet waiting for a tip.

Tyler lifts his chin. Say anything firm enough and it becomes a command. “Thank you,” he says. “Go.”

The boy takes one step back. Then two. Then he turns, and sprints for the bush.

Tyler looks at Tanner. He nods toward the pier. “Go out there and wait.”

And just as easy, Tanner goes.

Tyler closes his eyes. His skin is cold, except the one point of heat where his hands meet Wayne. He can hear the pier creaking, and the water lapping at the pilings. He opens his eyes. If he squints, he can see the ghostly outlines of small islands, their cliffs and trees black against a dark gray sky, but the far shore is hidden. His muscles ache. His arm aches. He keeps sweeping his eyes over the blackness, looking for lights.

Bobbing, and so dim Tyler thinks he might be imagining it, a light appears, hovering at the level of the water.

A second later, he hears Tanner cry out, “Someone’s coming!”

Tyler shivers, relief washing through him. He focusing on Wayne, whose eyes are closed. “Someone’s coming.”

Wayne doesn’t answer him.

The terror, quieted for a moment, surges back through him. Tyler risks lifting one of his hands from Wayne’s side to shake his face. “Wayne. We’re almost there, I swear – ”

“Tyler.” Wayne grabs for his hand. Ice-cold fingers close around Tyler’s. He takes a breath. “I had to get you to the Lake because Dean wanted you there.”

“I know,” Tyler says. “And you did it. And now we’re both there – ”

“Because of a letter,” Wayne says.

Tyler stops. “What?”

“A letter.” Wayne opens his eyes, still vivid, still clear. “He wants to ask you about a letter.”

Tyler shakes his head. “I don’t understand. What letter?”

“He wants to know about something in the letter. He wants information.” Wayne’s hand is slipping, his grip loosening.

“I don’t – ”

“ _Tyler_.” His eyes widen, and his fingers close hard again, tight around Tyler’s hand. He pulls Tyler close – close enough for Tyler to feel the heat of his body, to hear the rattle of breath in his throat.

Wayne swallows. His eyes are sharp on Tyler’s. “Don’t give it to him.”

The sound of Tanner’s pounding footsteps approaches. Breathless, he calls, “She says to get him in the boat.”

Tyler doesn’t stop to ask who. He slips one of Wayne’s arms around his shoulders. Tanner ducks under his other side.

A boat is waiting at the end of the pier. As Tyler and Tanner approach with Wayne, a light sweeps over them, leaving Tyler blinking and half-blind.

When his vision clears, Tyler can see a woman in the boat. She looks just like every image of a fisherman he’s ever seen – thick vest, plaid flannel, wide-brimmed hat pulled low. She has a radio strapped to the front of her vest, and she grips it hard, staring at the three of them, wide-eyed. Her mouth works, and then she speaks something into the radio, too low for Tyler to hear over the engine. She waves them forward and Tyler doesn’t hesitate. “Hold him,” he tells Tanner, and steps down into the boat.

It’s not big, just a smallish, metal motorboat, and it bobs under his weight. Tyler holds out his arms for Wayne, and Tanner helps him stumble down. Wayne’s moans are fainter now; his eyes flutter but don’t open, and when Tyler looks down, he can see all of them are now stained with a fluid that looks black in the moonlight.

Tyler’s shirt has wide, dark patches. His cuffs are soaked. His hands are sticky with it. In the boat, Tyler cradles Wayne’s weight against him, reaching around him to hold his hands once again over the wound.

Tanner leaps down, folding quietly into a spot near Wayne’s feet. The woman brings the boat engine to life. The wind whips tears from his eyes, cold spray like needles on Tyler’s face and neck as they skim through the dark.

The far shore is first only great dark shapes. The shapes resolve into a coastline. Trees. A ridge that rises sharply away from the water’s edge. And at the shore, finally emerging out of the fog and shadow, Tyler can see several figures standing, facing the water and waiting, near a boat dock.

The dock has lights that cast a wavering yellow sheen over the water. The woman piloting the boat cuts the motor, and Tyler hears the low hum of their conversation floating out across the water.

As they pull up, the group swarms the boat. They have a stretcher, and many hands reach for and lift Wayne. Tyler releases him, never hesitating, heart wedged in his throat.

The motion swirls around Tyler and Tanner, likes eddies around an island. Tyler murmurs half-choked pleas. His words are ignored, but it’s fine, because they’re moving, helping. They’re already carrying Wayne off into the dark. Tyler watches the group and the stretcher disappear into the dark.

In their wake, one lone figure is left, a man standing apart. He watches the commotion with arms folded across his chest, a black dog sitting at his feet. And even through the shadows and yellowed light, even in this strange and out-of-context place, Tyler recognizes who greets them.

“Welcome to the Lake of the Woods,” Mike Richards says.

 

 

Richards guides them up the slope that climbs away from the water. He moves slower than the crowd that had carried Wayne away, but still quickly. He holds no flashlight, and there are no lights on the path they take through the trees. He doesn’t apologize, or slow, even when Tyler stumbles, just calls out over his shoulder, “Come on, this way. We’ll talk inside.”

His dog shadows their party faithfully, but keeps its distance. Tyler can just make out the glint of an eye, and the patter of feet moving somewhere in the dark. They emerge from the trees, and Richards takes them towards what looks like the main lodge of what must have been some sort of rustic hotel. A wooden cabin on a grand scale. It looks out over the water, its front face encircled by a broad porch with rocking chairs all standing in a row.

Solar lanterns are strung up at each post of this porch, and they sway gently in the breeze, casting long, swinging shadows. Criss-crossing the lawn, Tyler can see paths running out in all directions, one leads across a sort of grassy quad to another large building, others wind towards smaller building tucked amongst the trees.

Richards takes the front porch steps at a jog. He holds the front door open for them, gesturing them through. From the lobby, he takes them not into any of the main rooms, but cuts down a side hallway, and through here to a small kitchen. Tyler looks around. It’s certainly not the hotel’s kitchen. It’s not nearly big enough, and there’s nothing commercial about it. Then this must be part of what was the innkeeper’s suite of rooms. He looks up to see a woman seated at the kitchen table, older, gray-streaked hair pulled back. She stands as they enter. “Jesus,” she says, her eyes wide.

She’s staring at him, and Tyler looks down at himself. In the light of the kitchen, he can see his shirt, his jacket, his sleeves are all covered in blood. 

She touches his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

Tyler shakes his head.

Richards has moved across the room and is digging rags out of a drawer. Without looking up, he says, “It’s not his.”

“Well, take that off,” she says to Tyler, gesturing at his jacket and shirt. “I’ll see what I can salvage.”

Tyler strips off his jacket and shirt. Tanner gives her his jacket, also streaked with red, as well. She nods towards the sink. “Soap and water over there.” 

The blood on his hands has dried sticky, settled into the lines of his knuckles and the beds of his fingernails. It makes Tyler light-headed for a moment, and he bends over the sink, elbows resting on the ledge. 

Tanner takes the rag from his hand. Wetting it carefully, he washes Tyler’s hand for him, taking care to avoid wetting the bandage on his arm. 

Tyler watches the drain until the water runs clear. 

Behind him, he hears the woman say, “Mike, would you – ”

“Yeah.” Richards answers. He disappears, and returns a moment later with clean clothes. 

Tyler clutches a towel between his hands. “What’s going to happen to Wayne?”

The woman clears her throat. “We have doctors here who can stabilize him. If they need to, he’ll be taken to the hospital in Winnipeg.”

Tyler blinks at her. Winnipeg’s got to be at least a couple hours from here. “But is he – you’ll let us know, right? If anything happens, or if – you’ll let us know?”

She nods, expression grave. “When we know something, you’ll know something.”

Richards clears his throat, and when Tyler turns, he can see Richards is holding out a clean shirt for him. 

Tyler takes it with numb fingers; he fumbles with the buttons. 

Richards waits for Tyler to finish dressing. Then he gestures for them to take seats at the kitchen table. He sits down heavily across from Tyler. “Alright. Now, what happened?”

Tyler looks at Tanner. 

Tanner swallows. His face is white and his hands are balled into fists in his lap. Tyler can see a spot of blood on Tanner’s cuff. “I shot him,” Tanner says, voice so low he’s hard to hear.

The words are so stark, and Tanner sounds so hollow; it’s like a punch to Tyler’s chest. Tyler stares, then he turns to gauge Mike Richards’ reaction. Richards’ mouth is set and grim. Eyes blinking like he’s still trying to work through his surprise. Richards has a beard now, and the angles of his face have softened from the player Tyler remembers. His skin is a more weathered tan. But that dark look in his eyes is familiar. Anyone who’d watched him play would recognize that look. “Okay.” Richards pauses, like he’s trying to untangle many thoughts at once. “Okay – ”

It was an accident. An accident. Richards needs to understand that. Tyler shakes his head. “Tanner didn’t mean to do it. We were surprised by a boy in the woods. He pulled a gun on us. Tanner got the gun away from him, but – it went off.”

Richards looks at Tanner, whose eyes are fixed on the table in front of him. “Is that how it happened?”

Tanner looks at Tyler, quick and automatic, eyes still too wide, fear on his face. 

He doesn’t need to be afraid, Tyler wants to tell him. Just tell him the truth. Richards has to listen. He has to. 

Tanner nods, slow and stiff. “It was an accident.” 

Richards exchanges a long look with the woman, some silent conversation passing between them. He turns back, looking directly at Tanner. “I understand,” he says slowly. “But I do want to make it clear that we don’t tolerate violence here. Guns aren’t – something to be treated lightly.” 

As if Tyler and Tanner are just kids. Kids who don’t have any idea how serious what just happened is. As if they didn’t hadn’t run away from guns in Manchester. As if they hadn’t seen the looks on the faces of Jon Quick’s soldiers. As if Tyler hadn’t looked down the barrel of a gun in Chicago, and as if he hadn’t had to watch one pointed right at the head of his friend. He can feel the flush climbing up his neck. He can feel an ache in his jaw, his teeth clenched hard. Richards wasn’t there. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t talked to Wayne; he has no idea how hard it’s been. He just thinks they’re stupid and careless, and he’s wrong.

“It was an accident,” Tyler repeats, spitting out each word. “He was trying to help. He was trying to keep us safe.” 

Richards’ eyes fall on him, face drawn into a frown and not even bothering to hide his irritation. 

“Here.” Tyler digs the gun out of his pocket. He drops it on the table, with a noise that makes everyone jump. “Take it. I don’t want it. Wayne is my friend, and we know how serious it is. We know what we did. I know. ”

Richards gives him another glare and snatches the gun off the table, checking it quickly. He unloads it, check it again, and pockets it. 

“So we don’t need the lecture,” Tyler finishes. He crosses his arms over his chest.

Richards’ lips have parted, surprise and increasing disbelief clear on his face. “I’m sorry, are you telling me what to do? You showed up – covered in blood, you’re throwing guns around my kitchen? You just got here. I haven’t even said you could stay – ”

Tyler doesn’t have much, but he may as well use what he’s got. He draws himself as tall as he can, and puts his shoulders back. “Yeah, well if you don’t let Tanner stay, I won’t stay either. If he goes, I go. And I don’t think you want that.” 

Richards looks at both of them, then at the woman, as if checking that she’s hearing this too. He stares at Tyler. “Kid. Who do you think you are?”

Which means Richards doesn’t know. Tyler pauses, some of the air going out of him. But he’ll find out, sooner or later. And if that’s the card Tyler has to play, then he’ll play it. Tyler smiles, tight and fierce, words of introduction on his lips –

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tanner, with something like suppressed panic on his face, as if he’s bracing himself for what happens when people hear Tyler’s name. 

Tyler shivers. But there’s not – there’s no one to step behind here, there’s no one to lean on. And he’s angry – because what was the point of crossing 1600 fucking miles – what was the point of risking their lives to get here if Tyler has to skulk in front of the people who are supposed to be helping him? Tyler sure as fuck didn’t come this far to _hide_.

Dead level, Tyler says, “I’m Tyler Toffoli, but what I think really matters, is that Dean Lombardi wants me here.”

Tyler sees him startle, even though Richards covers it quick. Richards sits back heavily in his chair. His eyes are hard on Tyler for one long, silent moment. A hard, assessing stare. The kind of stare that’s picked a lot of fights. “Yeah, well,” Richards says. “Dean’s not here.”

The disappointment stings. Tyler files that bit of knowledge away, but he won’t let Richards see him flinch. “That just means you’ll have to work a little bit harder to tell him I left.”

Richards stares at him a moment longer, the silence stretching. Then his look slips into something more amused. “So,” he says. “You’re Tyler Toffoli.” It’s hard to tell how he feels about it.

Tyler lifts his chin. “Yes.”

If possible, Richards looks even more irritated than he did a moment ago. He scrubs a hand across his face. “Okay,” he says, pinning Tyler with that dark gaze again. “You’ll stay. And we’ll both wait for Lombardi. But you’re not getting any kind of special treatment. I don’t care how big the finder’s fee on you was.”

Tyler frowns.

“And you,” Richards continues, looking at Tanner, “I don’t care what you do. As long as you don’t shoot anybody – ”

Tanner shrinks back, and Tyler leans forward, words of retort already forming –

“How about,” the woman breaks in, her voice pointed. “Mike, why don’t you go check on Wayne? I think I can take it from here.”

Richards hesitates before nodding, eyes still coldly focused on Tanner and Tyler. “Sure,” he says. “Thanks.”

She watches him leave, her expression distant. Then she gathers herself. She turns to face Tyler and Tanner and offers a tired smile. “Where are my manners? I’m Irene Richards.”

Tyler glances at Tanner again. Tanner is also drawing himself together, Tyler can see it in the in the straight line of his back, in the mask of calm he’s working to force his features into. He nods at Irene Richards, very small. “Tanner Pearson. And – ”

Irene Richards looks at Tyler. “Tyler. Right.”

Tyler nods.

“I know we haven’t met under pleasant circumstances.” Her nails tap out a rhythm on the table in front of her. “But I suppose it can only get better from here. Are you hungry?”

The idea of food makes Tyler’s stomach twist. “No,” he says. Then, “No, thank you.”

She gives him a wan sort of smile, as if this answer was expected. “Maybe the best thing to do is just get you settled into accommodations for the night.”

“But Wayne – ” Tyler starts.

“ – is getting medical care and is mostly likely on his way to Winnipeg right now, or will be soon.” She smiles tightly. “We’ll know more in the morning.”

Tyler’s head hurts. He rubs at the ice-pick sensation building at his temple. Being at the Lake, with everything outside so dark, it all feels like an illusion. Like they may not really here at all. This isn’t what the Lake was supposed to be – Wayne is hurt. Dean isn’t here. And –

“What about – ” Tyler stops. The words he wants to speak are lodged in his throat, sharp and cold. A hard fierce terror of asking, of knowing the answer.

Tyler swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m looking for my parents,” he says. “I thought they might be here.”

There is something in her face, some fleeting expression, but it’s gone too quickly for Tyler to read. “I’m sorry,” she says slowly. “There’s not anyone else here going by Toffoli.”

Tyler’s – he’s so tired. His head hurts. His chest hurts. All at once, it’s everything he can do to keep his eyes open.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. Her voice is softer now, and that hurts, too. “But you can get out and meet people tomorrow, we get a lot of news by word of mouth, someone may know something. And there’s a list in the library – Jeff keeps it – you’ll see.” She turns to Tanner. “What about you? Are you looking for anyone?”

Tanner shakes his head. “No,” he says. His voice is flat.

Irene seems surprised for a moment, waiting for him to add something else. When it doesn’t come, she clears her throat. “Alright. Well, it’s late, and you’ve been traveling. You’re tired. Let’s get you settled.

“Everyone at the Lake works. But in exchange for your work, you’ll get a place to sleep and three meals a day. As far as quarters, we have a bunkhouse – which is closer to the dining hall and the main buildings, which a lot of people prefer. Or we do have rooms in the east building – which is further out, and the only ones available are small – one bedroom, but it’s your own room, and they do have their own bathroom. Do you have a preference?”

There’s a stone lodged in Tyler’s throat. His preference would be for his parents to be here. For Wayne to be fine. To know what’s happening, what Dean wants from him – what Wayne had meant when he talked about a letter, and what he meant when he said –

Tyler bites down hard on his tongue. He wants to yell; he wants to know what the fuck is going on, but whatever it is, none of it is this woman’s fault. Nothing she has any control over. And Tyler was raised with some semblance of manners. He makes himself smile. “The east building will be fine. For both of us.”

 

 

The east building is long and low, a T-shaped single story of small rooms, each with an identical window and a doorway leading out to a narrow front walkway. Irene shows them to a room in the middle of one of the T’s short arms. The door has a small wooden plaque over it that reads, _Pintail._ Tyler looks at the doorways to either side of theirs: _Gadwall_ and _Wigeon._ Then he looks over at Tanner. Tanner is reading them, too. He looks back at Tyler and shrugs. Irene opens the door and stands aside to let them pass. She hands the key to Tyler as he enters.

She gestures. “So – small, as you can see. But clean. Just the one bed – but there might be room for a cot. If you want to try, I can – ”

He can see Tanner stiffen, but Tyler says, “No.” With the last of his energy, he tells her, “This is fine.” More than anything, he wants her to leave. He wants her gone before he breaks down right here, in the middle of the floor.

She doesn’t even blink. “Okay. Then you’re settled?” At his nod, she hesitates for a moment, then adds, “We can discuss your assignment to a work group and – everything else tomorrow. Sleep well.” And she leaves.

The door clicks shut behind her. Tanner crosses the room in three steps and slides the deadbolt home. He looks at Tyler.

Tyler shakes himself. He flips on the lamp and studies the room – wood-paneled walls, a plaster ceiling that still shows the rough marks and swirls of some long-ago trowel. The door to the bathroom stands open, revealing an old basin sink, and a shower hidden by a thin, plastic curtain.

Tanner studies the picture hanging over the bed. It’s an oil painting, and Tyler can see the carefully applied brushstrokes where the light catches them. A brown and white hunting dog emerges from lake mist and rushes, head lifted and alert. The thin neck of a duck in its mouth, the bird’s black, lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Carefully painted beads of red stand out shiny and vivid on the white fur of the dog’s muzzle. Blood from some unseen wound.

Looking at it makes Tyler feel nauseous. He turns away. He’s supposed to say something. _Here we are! Mission accomplished!_ But his throat still feels swollen shut. Nothing feels settled, as though they’ve traveled thousands of miles only to come to a great, lurching halt. Like they’ve come all this way, only to not move at all.

Tanner tears his eyes from the painting. He blinks at Tyler. “I’m going to shower.”

Tyler nods, even though Tanner doesn’t wait for an answer. Tyler sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls off his boots. Moving methodically, he stuffs his socks inside, takes off the shirt he’d just been given, and hangs it in the small closet. It doesn’t exactly make the room feel any more like a home. He returns to the bed and lies down on top of the covers, listening to the squeal of pipes and the shush of falling water coming from the other side of the bathroom door. He closes his eyes. This is going to be fine. This is going to be fine – because it has to be. Wayne will be fine. Dean will show up, and at least tell him where his parents are, and –

He starts awake to Tanner standing over him, dripping. “Your turn.”

Tyler showers on autopilot, scrubbing the dirt of the road from his skin with the bar of gray soap he finds in the soap dish, doing the best he can one-handed, while trying to keep his still-bandaged arm dry. Despite his best efforts, the tape is peeling and damp by the time he’s done.

Tanner is sitting on the edge of his bed when Tyler emerges, still with a towel wrapped around his waist. Goosebumps standing up on his damp skin.

Tyler’s not exactly eager to pull on yet another set of stranger’s clothing, either. He approaches and extends his arm. “Would you mind helping me with this?”

Tanner flinches, as though he hadn’t noticed Tyler approach. He nods. Tyler sits next to him, arm resting on Tanner’s knee. They left the Union truck’s first aid kit behind in their rush, but Irene gave them some supplies to go along with the clothing. Tanner peels the old bandage away. The skin underneath is clammy and pale, except along the cut itself, which winds angry and red up Tyler’s wrist.

Tanner swallows, eyes glued to Tyler’s skin.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Tyler says.

Tanner looks at him, like he knows it does. He wipes Tyler’s arm down with alcohol, soft and careful, affixes a new bandage in place with meticulous care.

Tyler’s arm is still in his lap. Tanner is still so close. Tyler wants to say a million different things. He wants to reassure, or promise, or comfort – but all his words get stuck in his throat, his tongue tied in a knot.

Tyler reaches out to cup Tanner’s face instead. Tanner shivers at this touch, but remains otherwise still. Tyler leans in. He kisses him. He thinks _: please understand what this means. Please understand what I’m saying._

Tanner’s face is rough with stubble, but his lips are soft. It feels like so long since Tyler has held Tanner’s face like this, and the immobility of Tanner’s mouth under his, like he’s forgotten how to do this, makes it feel even longer. It hasn’t really been that long since Connecticut or Chicago or Cincinnati, but it feels like years. Under his hands and lips, everything about Tanner feels unfamiliar, as if all the miles they’ve covered were enough to remake him into uncharted territory.

Tyler can hear the small hitches in Tanner’s breathing; he can feel tremors running up and down the muscles of his arms and back. _Please understand –_

Tanner moves all at once, like a bird breaking cover. His fingers claw at Tyler’s back, arms wrapping around him to pull him closer. His skin feels fever hot after the night air.

It _has_ been a long time since they’ve done this – Tyler feels all of it – all of the days and weeks of no privacy and no space and no one touching him. Tyler leans into him, leans over him, can barely break away from Tanner’s mouth long enough to steal air.

Tanner’s nails press into his skin. His teeth skim Tyler’s lips.

Tyler unknots the towel around his waist and reaches down to push Tanner’s towel out of the way. They both smell like the lye of rough soap and well water, like the tang of fresh sweat and want. The skin of Tanner’s stomach is so soft, rising and falling, a flutter under Tyler’s hands.

Tanner’s mouth opens under his, head tilted back, and Tyler can hear him breathing, a hard, unsteady pant. He can feel the air rush against his cheek, and his hands urge Tyler forward now, pulling him up onto the bed. He’s under Tyler just long enough for Tyler to feel them pressing up against each other, slick and needy, blunt and seeking, and then Tanner rolls on top of him. The weight and the heat and the smell are so familiar Tyler’s body picks up right where they left off. His arms slide around Tanner’s neck, his legs around his waist, automatic, unthinking.

Tanner’s teeth scrape down the side of his neck and his hips push hard against Tyler.

Tyler rises to meet him. “I missed touching you. I missed this – ”

Tanner lifts his head. His face is flushed a dark red. He presses his mouth hard to Tyler’s.

He touches Tyler, exploring then gripping him with hesitant, stuttered movement, as if Tanner has forgotten how hard he’s allowed to hold, how much he can get away with.

It’s maddening. Tanner’s grip tightens and his movements quicken, but Tyler needs it to be faster still. In his head, he thinks about all the times he had held onto Tanner. How he had kept his hands at Tanner’s hips, urging them to slow – _go slow, go slow, be careful_ – but not now. All they have is instinct. All they have is momentum. And Tyler knows, suddenly _knows,_ that if they stop now, halfway, they will never figure out how to do this again.

Tyler breathes faster, working for air, exhales torn out of him. Stupid to worry about stopping, neither one of them could stop now, not if they wanted to. He moans out something broken when he comes, and he’s close enough to hear Tanner’s startled gasp when he follows.

Tanner’s sweat-slick forehead stays pressed to Tyler’s, just for a moment. Then he rolls off, but not away. He leaves one arm thrown over Tyler’s chest. Tyler rests a hand on his elbow.

Voices filter in from outside, first faint, then close. Tanner stills beside him, even his breathing goes quiet. They lay in the dark and listen. From somewhere outside, a dog barks. Then sounds of laughter float in, and steps clatter on the wooden steps outside their door.

Tyler hears the sound of a key turning in a lock, distinct and clear. Tanner stiffens, but it’s the door one room over from theirs. Their neighbor coming home.

Tyler hears a woman’s voice call out goodnight, followed by the sound of the door closing. Just on the other side of the wall, the footsteps cross from one end of the room to the other.

Tanner pulls the blanket up to his chest. For a moment, his hands rest folded on his chest, almost childlike. Silent, but his eyes are open, gaze steady on the ceiling, like he feels no imminent danger of sleep. He shifts, and in the dim light, Tyler watches him hold both hands to his face, fingertips pressing hard, like he’s trying to block something out.

The strangeness of the place seems to echo around them, and Tyler wants to know if this what it’s going to be like – just one day after the next, like this?

But then, isn’t that what he’s supposed to want?

He swallows. They’ve both come so very, very far. Tyler has to make this work.

Next to him, Tanner takes an unsteady breath.

Tyler curls closer. “We’re going to be okay.”

Tanner feels flushed next to him. He keeps his face pressed close to Tyler’s. He keeps his eyes closed.

 

 

The first snow comes three weeks after their arrival at the Lake.

Tyler wakes to the clatter of footsteps on the boards of the walkway outside. Nobody in the east building has their own kitchen, so everyone eats in the dining hall. The breakfast rush is as good as an alarm clock. Tyler opens his eyes just enough to note the weak light coming in the window, and the white flakes drifting down, then turns over, burrowing back down into the blankets.

It’d be nice if it snowed enough to muffle the sound of everyone tromping around outside, otherwise it’s just cold. Another set of footsteps thumps by, and Tyler winces. It feels strange to be around so many people now. The Lake is so different from their cabin in Hamden, where he and Tanner could go days without seeing any other people.

Irene says there are a couple hundred people here now, but that there would be more as soon as the real cold set in. People might survive on their own over the summer, but getting through the winter was something else entirely, and the Lake has greenhouses, a machine shop, a garage, a library. Everyone is expected to work, but in return you get a warm place to stay. And meals.

And Tyler has learned for most people, that’s a lot.

Rolling onto his back, Tyler stretches his arms up above him, rolling his wrists and listening to the crackle and pop of his joints. He studies his hands in the dim light – they’re pretty nicked up at the moment, knuckles raw in a couple places, black grime embedded in his nailbeds.

Tyler picks at the dirt in disgust, and then smirks at himself. Half awake and already feeling vain.

When she was setting them up with their work assignments, Irene had emphasized the benefits of learning a trade. And, Tyler supposes, there’s something to be said for working _each according to his ability_ and the labor of _he who works with his hands and his head and his heart_ being worthwhile no matter what it is he’s doing, and all that. Tyler mulls the thought over. He’s pretty sure one of those quotes is from St. Francis and one of them is Karl Marx, although he can’t remember which is which.

He pauses – there was a time in his life when it would have bothered him that he couldn’t remember who said what, but it doesn’t seem to matter much now. And anyway, both those sentiments seem rather grand for the work he’s been doing. But his job is novel, at least. And it’s something to do until – Tyler pauses again. Until Dean comes back, and it’s time to do something more important.

Tyler lets his arm drop back to his side, mumbling, “Without labor, nothing prospers.” That one was definitely Sophocles. And turns on his side, and looks at Tanner. Tanner’s face is half-mashed against his pillow, sweat-damp strands clinging to his forehead. His whole body is a compact arc, knees drawn up, shoulders rounded and clenched close to his ears. His hands tucked just under his chin – a child’s sleeping pose.

But sleeping for once. Even through the racket outside.

Tyler lets him be for the moment. Tanner was up at least twice during the night. Tyler woke briefly to the sounds of him moving around their room, pacing in small, vicious circles, and to the creak of the bedsprings that marked his return. Better to let him sleep when he can. Tyler slips carefully out of bed. He washes up and dresses without turning on the light.

Outside, one of the stragglers takes the steps at a run. The clatter shakes their door in its frame, and Tanner rolls away from the sound. He lifts his head, a quick snap into wakefulness. The only way Tyler has ever seen him wake up.

Tanner’s eyes take a moment to focus, as if he’s pulling himself from a dream.

Tyler sits on the edge of the bed. “Time to get up,” he says. “Breakfast.”

Tanner rubs his eyes. “Yeah. Okay.” He yawns. “Just give me a second.”

Tyler waits for him outside, watching the flow of people stream towards the dining hall. There’s a whole side economy centered on knitting at the Lake, and right now the trend seems to the brighter the better. The crowd is dotted with pink and orange and green caps, and striped scarves in all kinds of lurid color combinations. Tyler doesn’t know what the knitters are going to do after everyone has a hat, but then, supposedly there’s no such thing as a saturated market if you have a good product.

Not that any of the knitters are likely interested in Tyler’s thoughts on political economy.

Tanner joins him on the porch a minute later, still trying to smooth the hair at back of head.

Tyler eyes the brightly-colored caps going past and takes a swipe at a bit of Tanner’s hair that refuses to lie flat. “Need to look into getting you one of those fancy hats.”

Tanner rolls his eyes, and apparently no one’s interested in Tyler’s thoughts on anything this morning. Tyler lets his hand fall. “Alright, never mind.”

At breakfast, they take seats across from each other at one of the long tables in the dining hall, and Tyler watches Tanner turn his coffee in his hands. He has dark circles under his eyes; his mouth is a sour line. Either Tanner’s getting worse at faking good cheer, or Tyler’s getting better at seeing through him faking it, because three weeks in, Tanner still looks unsettled here. Brittle in a way that makes Tyler uneasy.

Feeling out of place is supposed to be Tyler’s role. Tanner is the one who’s supposed to make this look easy. And Tyler doesn’t know what Tanner is worried about – but it’s something. Because Tanner goes to work, and he goes to meals with Tyler, and other than that he mostly stays holed up in their room.

Tanner could still be worried about Wayne – but almost two weeks ago now, Richards had finally given them the update that Wayne had been released from hospital in Winnipeg.

“He’s going to be fine,” Richards said. And he sounded happy enough about it to make up for the slightly irritated look he got every time his and Tyler’s paths crossed.

Tyler had let out a long sigh of relief, something easing in his chest. “When is he getting here?”

But Richards had already turned away. He didn’t even bother looking up. “Actually he’s headed to Toronto.”

Tyler stopped smiling. Toronto was one of the few places left with active fighting going on. Toronto was basically the worst place Wayne could go, especially if he was still healing. “Why?” Tanner frowned. “Is he coming here after?”

Richards glared at him. “I’m not a message service.”

Like it was some great hassle just to talk to Tyler. Or actually – it wasn’t the act of telling Tyler, it was that Richards wanted to be the only one with the information. Because he was the one running things. Which was stupid. Being in charge shouldn’t mean hoarding information. And if Richards wanted to run things, he ought to run them right.

Maybe bullying people worked when you were surrounded by people who were used to being pushed around, but Tyler drew himself up and glared back. “He’s my friend. The last time I saw him –” The last time Tyler saw him, Wayne was warning him to keep his mouth shut around Dean Lombardi, but why and about what, and whether that warning extended to Mike Richards, Wayne hadn’t said. “The last time I saw him, he was _shot_ ,” Tyler spat. “Would it kill you to let me know something more than he’s okay?”

Richards gaped at him, hesitating. “Okay, look. I think he’s got family in Toronto. And I don’t know what his plans are after that. It sort of depends on – how things go.”

 _How things go._ The look he gave Tyler dared Tyler to ask any more questions. Probably just so Richards could have the satisfaction of not answering. Which Tyler was not about to give him. And so after that they had both fallen silent, each holding on to their secrets.

Even though Richards nominally runs the Lake, his mother handles most of the actual day-to-day affairs, since Richards doesn’t seem to care for it. He always looks some combination of exhausted and exasperated, like if one more person dumps their problems on him, he’s going to scream. Plus, he’s away all the time, making trips to Winnipeg or the outlying communities, which supposedly have something to do with organizing and infrastructure, although Tyler thinks maybe he does that just to escape.

There are all kinds of rumors floating around the Lake about what exactly he’s accomplishing. In the bits and pieces Tyler has heard, Richards is working on getting an independent communication network up and running. And as for the organizing – presumably he’s making sure everything doesn’t fall apart when the Union crumbles.

There are plenty of rumors about that, too. According to local gossip, the Union has already secretly collapsed, hasn’t collapsed but is on the verge, and isn’t going to collapse at all, because a whole new wave of troops has been recruited from somewhere overseas. The fact that all these rumors contradict each other doesn’t seem to bother the people passing them on.

Towards the end, right before they’d had to leave Toronto, Tyler’s mother had warned him not to listen to rumors. But right now, rumors are all he’s got.

The one bit of consensus is that whatever’s happening, Mike Richards is at the center of it, but Richards isn’t giving anything away.

A strategy, Tyler thinks, his father would agree with. Tyler twists his mouth and drags his attention back to Tanner, still cradling his coffee mug, food still untouched in front of him.

For all that Tanner’s doing his best to flash smiles for all these new people. For all the new callouses from his work with the greenhouse crew, he still seems adrift. Miserable in a way Tyler can’t un-see, and Tyler’s chest aches with it.

Tyler reaches across the table and touches his hand. “Hey.”

Tanner doesn’t flinch. But Tyler can see the flicker of anxiety on his face. The tightening of his jaw, like he doesn’t know what do with Tyler’s hand laying over his, like he’s worried about people seeing, even though, theoretically, that sort of thing is supposed to be fine here.

Tyler takes a more deliberate hold of his hand. “You want me to get you something else to eat? I think there might still be fruit in the back?”

Tanner looks up from their joined hands. There’s an intensity in his stillness, the posture of someone who has noticed a stinging insect crawling across them they’re afraid to brush off. “No,” he says, after a beat. “I think I’m going to head back to the room and try to get some more sleep.” He pauses. “I don’t have to be at work until this afternoon, and I was up late.”

Guilt twists in Tyler’s stomach. He nods and lets go. Adjusting is a process, Tyler reminds himself. It’s not going to happen overnight.

Tanner’s adjusting. He just needs time.

Tyler doesn’t know how long they’ll be here, but while they are, there’s no reason for Tanner to be this miserable. There must be way of making it easier, although Tyler hasn’t figured out how. The first week, Tanner had barely been able to lie down, much less sleep. Night after night, Tyler had listened to Tanner pace the small room in sock-clad feet, until finally Tyler had offered to leave – to give Tanner the room, and move himself into the bunkhouse. But Tanner had responded to his words with such a sudden and complete look of terror, that even though it had only been on his face for a moment, even though he had covered it up quickly, Tyler never brought the idea up again.

This is going to work out. It’s just going to take a little bit of time for Tanner to settle in and believe that. So in the meantime, Tyler will just believe that enough for the both of them. Tyler squeezes his arm. “Okay.” He stands. “I gotta go to work. I’m gonna be late to dinner because I have an appointment at the clinic to look at my arm, but I’ll see you later tonight?”

Tanner nods. And he holds still for Tyler to kiss his cheek.

 

 

When Tyler was first assigned to work at the garage, it felt like a joke – and maybe it was Mike Richards’ idea of a joke – because Tyler couldn’t drive a car, much less fix one.

Buster, who runs the garage, and whose name was really Gregory – _call me Buster, only Irene calls me Gregory_ – had looked Tyler up and down. His face was obscured by a thick beard, but he was definitely scowling. He’d said, “What useless hack has she sent me now? I don’t suppose you know anything about engines?”

Tyler shook his head no.

“Well,” Buster said, still taking him in. “You’ll learn.”

And so Tyler had.

Buster lumbers around his shop; he’s as tall as Tyler and twice as broad. His beard is streaked with gray. But, as Tyler had discovered the first time Buster pulled off the bright purple knit cap he always wears, there’s not a single hair left on top of his head.

This morning, he’s in the small room at the front of the garage they use as an office. He glances up when Tyler comes in. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Tyler slips out of his jacket and grabs his grease-stained coveralls from their place on the hook. He walks over to join Buster.

“Slight delay on the coffee-making front.” Buster has the coffeemaker in front of him, turned to face backwards, the back panel cracked open to expose the wiring.

Tyler pauses in putting on the coveralls. “I could go grab a carafe from the dining hall?”

“Naw.” Buster’s fingers, although permanently blackened and topped by nails that look like they’ve been mashed flat more than once, move with a delicate grace. “I’ve almost got it.”

There’s no telling how long he’s _almost had it_. Tyler isn’t excited about a work day without coffee, even shitty shop coffee. He thinks about telling Buster about planned obsolescence, and how the wiring in that coffeemaker has probably outlived its intended shelf life several times over. But he bites that thought back. Buster, Tyler has learned, is a strong believer in self-sufficiency. And hearing the manufacturer wanted those inner workings to fail would probably make him re-double his stubborn attempts to fix it.

Tyler does take advantage of his distraction, though, leaning up against the counter next to him. “Hey, is it okay if I leave a little early today? I have an appointment at the clinic to get my arm looked at.” Tyler squeezes and releases a fist, flexing his wrist forward and back. Some days the stiffness is worse than others.

Buster raises an eyebrow, eyes cutting over for a second to glance at Tyler’s arm, before he returns to his study of the coffee machine’s innards. He tips his head back and forth, lips pursed like the request requires serious consideration. “Sure,” he says at last. He looks at Tyler with his black eyebrows draw together. “Gonna have to work you extra hard while you are here, though.”

Tyler’s been here long enough to know that Buster is mostly just giving him a hard time. But there’s some truth to what he says. “Yes, sir,” he answers. He leaves the office and goes out into the shop to prod the space heater to life. He flips on the shop lights and studies the log book to figure out if there’s anything he can get started on without Buster, or Alex or Sam’s help.

Tyler can change oil and fluids. He can swap out tires and spark plugs and belts. Mostly he’s picked up things that don’t require taking the engine apart, and even then – he’s learned it’s not really the taking it apart that’s the hard part. It’s putting it back together.

A blast of cold air from outside signals Alex’s entrance to the shop, as always with Sam close on her heels. She bypasses the office, ditches her coat in the bed of the old beater pickup truck she keeps at the shop, and takes her own look at the logbook. Then she glances over to where Tyler is setting up in front of one of the landscaping team’s tractors.

She walks over to Tyler and squats for a better view. She doesn’t say anything, just watches him, black eyes sharp.

Tyler tries not to get irritated. If he gets irritated, he’ll just flustered. If he gets flustered, he’ll fuck something up. And then he’ll hear it, because Alex has a lot of opinions about how their work should be done, and not a lot of qualms about telling him when he’s doing it wrong.

Right now, Tyler’s supposed to replacing the brake linkage. To get access to that, Tyler needs to get the cover plate off, but the cover plate isn’t budging.

Being watched isn’t making him any more graceful, and his fingers fumble the socket wrench. Tyler can feel the muscles tightening, the skin of the back of his neck flushing red. But he doesn’t look up.

After a moment of watching him silently, she stands, and he hears her footsteps retreat. This is followed by the clank of the metal shelves opening, and she reappears at his side, holding a different sized socket out to him at eye level.

Tyler pauses before reaching out and taking it. He’s blushing, but he makes himself say, “Thanks.”

Alex says, “Also, there’s a bolt on the underside of the cover plate that you need to remove. And make sure you have a catch pan in place before you flush it.”

Tyler might be new, but he’s not a complete idiot. “I know about the catch pan. I mean – I just hadn’t grabbed it yet.”

Alex hums to herself. She says, “Sam, go grab a catch pan,” and she stays hovering over him. “Where’s Buster?”

Tyler gets the bolt free at last. “He’s in the office. Fixing the coffee machine. He said he’d just be a minute.”

Alex snorts at that. “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Her footsteps drift off towards another part of the garage, and Tyler breathes out, relieved.

Sam drops down next to him. “Hi, I’m Sam,” Sam says. Sam has wispy, straw-yellow hair, nicotine-stained fingertips, and a tattoo on the inside of his wrist that just reads, _ALEX._

And every single day of the three weeks that Tyler’s worked in the shop, he’s introduced himself.

“I got two other kids working here,” Buster had said on Tyler’s first day, holding up two thick fingers in illustration. “One of them won’t like you, and the other won’t remember you.” Then he paused, leaning close like he was letting Tyler in on a secret. “But they’re both good kids.”

Sam tells him cheerfully that he remembers everything up to three years ago, but nothing after. He can’t remember anything or anyone new. Every day is a new day for him.

Some days Tyler envies that.

Tyler smiles at him. “Hey Sam, I’m Tyler.”

Sam must have learned auto mechanics sometime before stopped remembering anything, because he knows machines inside and out. He has steady hands, and a knack for diagnosing every clanking noise an unhappy engine can make.

During Tyler’s first days, it was mostly Sam who trained him, and when Sam called him over to say, “Stand here. Look at this. Hold that, see how they’re connected?” It wasn’t all that different from watching a coach stand over a whiteboard. And besides, even if Sam did decide Tyler was worthless or stuck up or utterly unteachable, it’s not like Sam can hold it against him. That makes it easy to relax around him.

“Good,” Sam says now, watching as Tyler pops the cover plate free. “Good.”

Because the work is new, it requires Tyler’s attention, which keeps his mind safely occupied. And the room is warm, because Alex knows just how to kick the space heater to keep it running when it stutters, the combination of these two things makes time in the garage pass quickly.

Which is good. Since what Tyler’s really doing, is waiting.

Tyler doesn’t like waiting. He’s never liked waiting, but he doesn’t really have much choice in the matter – because what else is there to do? He could take off on a blind search for Dean, but aside from _not here,_ he doesn’t have any idea where to start looking, much less how he’d get there if he did know. He could go to Toronto, and try to track down Wayne and try to get more answers out of him, but he doesn’t really know where Wayne is, either, and it’s not like Wayne has seen fit to even send word back to Tyler that he is, you know, alive.

Tyler purses his lips. There’s nothing to do but wait for Dean, whenever he might decide to show up. But that doesn’t mean Tyler has to like it.

As the day winds down, Buster emerges from his office and leans into the shop long enough to yell, “Hey, Tyler – go grab me some engine bearings from the Treasure Chest.”

The Treasure Chest is Buster’s name for the graveyard of spare parts, half-cannibalized cars and miscellaneous automotive supplies scattered in the lot behind the garage. There’s a maze of sheds and tarps, and piles right out in the open – it’s not so very different from Katrina’s stash in Chicago, except it’s all automotive-themed. And it looks like it was organized by a madman.

Tyler zips up his jacket and pulls his knit cap down low. The garage is positioned so that the trees shelter it from the worst of the wind that comes off the lake, but it’s gotten cold. The snow that fell this morning didn’t stick, but it will, soon. Tyler walks out into the cold air and pauses. They’re on a bit of a rise, and from here he can see the main lodge and dining hall, smoke rising from the chimney. Beyond that are the long rows of greenhouses, crews swarming over them with wheelbarrows of dirt and straw, getting them ready for winter. He squints at the moving figures, trying to pick out Tanner, but it’s too far away, and everyone is too bundled up to tell.

Further out, beyond the greenhouses, are a few scattered cabins, fields lying fallow now, but that get used during the Lake’s short growing season, and the river, which curves around this last bit of land before joining the lake. Tyler watches the last glinting bits of sun reflect off the water.

Then he turns his attention back to the task at hand. He wanders the stacks, looking for the particular pieces of silver metal he wants, in a sea of other silver metal bits. Tyler knows what bearings are, and what they look like, but he’s not entirely sure if there are different kinds, or different sizes, or if he should maybe have asked Buster more questions before heading out.

Eyes glued to the shelves he’s wandering past, he almost trips over the pieces of a rusting and battered carburetor, lying discarded on the ground. One day, Tyler’s gonna organize this place. One day. Just as soon as he figures out what half these things are.

No bearings in plain sight. Tyler drums his fingers against his thighs. Time to check some of the less trafficked corners of the lot. Tyler turns his attention to the rows of tarped-over shelves in the back. And now, fully hidden from the view of the shop windows, he pauses in his search.

Buster’s nickname for this place isn’t complete bullshit. There are some treasures back here. Tyler makes his way to a shaded corner of the lot. A three-sided shed, sagging sharply in one corner holds a large, uneven shape, carefully wrapped in a blue tarp.

Tyler moves the rocks that hold the corners of the tarp pinned, setting them aside carefully. Freed, the edge of the tarp begins to flap in the breeze. Almost an invitation to roll it back.

This is not Tyler’s first time exploring this particular shed or its contents. He glances back over his shoulder, furtive. No one’s ever said he couldn’t poke around back here, but it’s certainly not what he was sent back here to do.

There’s a motorcycle under the tarp.

Tyler’s visited it three or four times now, each time getting a little braver about rolling the tarp back and exposing the machine to the air. The chrome is dull and rusted. The headlight broken, and the engine clogged and black with congealed grease.

Tyler likes it anyway. He likes the clean lines of the body, the lean curve of the exhaust pipes and the swoop of the gas tank. Even covered over and bagged up like debris, it looks slick. It looks fast. Tyler kneels, angling for a closer look at the engine. With his nail, he tries to scrape away some of the grease to make out what might lie underneath.

The sound of gravel crunching underfoot is all the warning he gets of someone’s approach. Tyler stands, turns, already searching for the words to excuse his prying.

Buster doesn’t give him the chance. “Ah. You found the Tiger.”

Buster steps up to stand next to him. Eyes not on Tyler, but rather on the machine. His hands shoved deep in his pockets, and there’s a strange expression on his face, that after a beat, Tyler realizes is a smile.

Tyler’s biggest goal around here is not to break anything, and he’s still not sure if he just got caught doing something he shouldn’t. “It’s – cool,” he offers, and then immediately winces. It probably sounds like he has no idea what he’s talking about.

Which he doesn’t.  

But Buster just nods, his smile growing bigger. “Yeah. It is.” He taps the fuel tank. “Originally, I thought we’d use it for parts but – ” He shakes his head. “Twin carb. Hundred miles an hour going flat out. And look at her – she’s too pretty to strip.”

There’s a trace of amusement, maybe even embarrassment, in Buster’s voice, but mostly it’s admiration. And there is something about the motorcycle, about its lines and curves. Even here, stuck in the mud and gravel and half rusted over.

It looks like promise. Like possibility. Tyler reaches out again and runs a hand over the handlebars, fingers hesitating where they’re marred by rust. He glances back to find Buster watching him.

Tyler lets his hand fall, embarrassed. A kid caught eyeing the candy jar.

Buster toes the gravel. He squints out at the horizon. “Tell you what,” he says. “If you can get it running again, it’s yours.”

Tyler stares at him, at a loss for words. “Are you sure?”

Buster’s amused look gets packed away into something gruffer. “I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart.” He kicks more gravel. “I need you to learn to fix an engine. Might as well have you practice on your own.”

Tyler’s grinning so hard his face hurts. “Thank you.”

Buster brushes this off. “Go clean up and get to that appointment of yours. You don’t want you to be late to dinner, I hear they scrounged up real chicken tonight.” He nods, seemingly mostly to himself. Sketching a wave at Tyler, he starts back towards the shop. He pauses once, plucking two engine bearings from a pile before he goes.

 

 

The Lake’s clinic is set up in what looks like it must have been an old conference room. The big, empty space has been sectioned off with curtains, and the whole place smells of antiseptic, so strongly that every time Tyler walks in, he’s bombarded with memories of the Monarch trainer’s room. If he closes his eyes while he’s in there, he can imagine the smell of ice and old sweat, so vivid they seem real. And even though he knows he’s at the Lake, that he’s thousands of miles and a lifetime from the rink, sitting on the hard, cool surface of the examining table, adrenaline courses through him, makes his skin prickle, and grinds his teeth, ready for the game.

Tyler opens his eyes. Even given the wash of sense memory, he doesn’t mind going to the clinic. Nothing terrible ever happened to him at the hands of the trainers, or on the ice, for that matter. Playing hockey was always the best part of his day. The one place he fit.

Dr. Lavoie pushes the curtain back and smiles at him – she’s the same doctor that took the stitches out of Tyler’s arm last week, which was the first time he’d ever seen female medical personnel. He’d blushed through their whole appointment, even though the worst she’d done was ask him if it ever hurt when he peed.

Today, her dark hair is done up in tiny braids, twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She has a spray of freckles across her nose, and the lines around her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Hello, Tyler. How are you today?”

With effort, Tyler pulls himself out of his memories. He blushes, and it takes him a second to remember his manners. “Fine, thank you.”

“How is your friend?”

For a second, he thinks she means Tanner, and he blinks at her, startled. But no. She’s asking after Wayne, because the last time Tyler saw her, he’d asked her about what they were going to do for Wayne, over in Winnipeg. “He’s doing better,” Tyler says. “They released him from the hospital.” He pauses. “Or, at least that’s what Mike Richards told me.”

“Good, good.” She has a soft Blue & Red accent. She reaches for her stethoscope and Tyler sits more upright automatically. She listens to him breathing. “And you? No trouble with the antibiotics?”

Her hands are cool. “No.”

“Appetite? Energy level? Bowel movements?”

Tyler coughs. He can feel a new blush climbing up his neck, and he resists the urge to look down at his feet. “All fine.”

She comes back to stand in front of him. “What about your mood? Any feelings of sadness or anxiety?”

Tyler frowns; that’s a new one. But it’s probably just that – his mouth twists into a smile. “I know what this looks like.” He holds out his arm so the scar across his wrist is displayed. “But I swear it wasn’t a suicide attempt.”

She smiles at his response, hooks the stethoscope back around her neck. “I believe you. But a lot of the people we get at the Lake _are_ sad or anxious. And I can’t always convince those people to come see me, especially the former players – so I like to make extra sure the ones I _do_ get to see are healthy.” She looks at him with eyebrows raised in question. “You understand?”

Her face is still smiling, but her eyes are intent on his. Like she actually cares. Like she’d listen if he needed help.

It would, probably, be frustrating, trying to help people who’ve been told their entire lives to shut the fuck up about their feelings. It’s not the kind of thing you’re supposed to talk about. Even Tyler picked up on that quick enough, and he has parents who actually concerned themselves with his emotional literacy, and taught him phrases like _emotional literacy._ Most of the guys Tyler knew back in Manch definitely didn’t have that, and they would probably rather cut off their own arm than –

Tyler stops. Rather than talk about something that was bothering them. He shifts, running his hands along the edge of the exam table. “What if – what if I were – having a hard time? What would you do?”

Her face doesn’t change, her gaze still attentive and thoughtful. “That would depend on what sort of problems you’re experiencing.”

Tyler’s mouth opens then shuts. Regardless of whether it’s something you’re supposed to talk about, it’s definitely, _definitely_ not the kind of thing you’re supposed to talk about behind someone’s back. Tanner wouldn’t want him to say anything.

The metal under his fingers is cool, the edges sharp.

But Tanner has nightmares, and at night Tanner paces their room like a caged thing – the door unlocked but too afraid to go out. Tanner’s clothes are starting to hang to on him. When they’re out, he never settles, and his expression is strained, as if it’s taking all of his concentration to hold the pieces of himself together.

Tanner really, really wouldn’t want him to say anything.

Tyler pulls his hands back into his lap. “What if he – I, like – what if I couldn’t sleep? And I was – ” Tyler swallows. “I don’t know how to describe it. Nervous. All the time?”

Dr. Lavoie gives him a long, thoughtful long. “Difficulty sleeping and anxiety can all be symptoms of depression – ”

“And for depression – you’d what? You’d give him pills for that?” Tyler’s mother had friends who were constantly taking something for their nerves. Although this doesn’t really feel like the same thing.

“Not necessarily.” She’s looking at him seriously now, and her words slow down, like they’re being carefully considered. “A lot of the people who have ended up here at the Lake have been through a great deal of trauma. But we do have people here that they can talk to. It doesn’t have to involve medication, if the person involved doesn’t want it to.”

Tyler doesn’t miss the careful way she says _the person involved_. He looks down, and gives up the pretense. “But why – if it’s better here than anywhere we were before, why is he so unhappy here?”

“It’s safer here, yes,” she agrees. “But even leaving a bad situation can be hard, if it means leaving the familiar for the unknown. Especially if you’re coming from a – more rigidly controlled environment.” She smiles gently. “That’s one of the good things about the Lake, it provides choice, but a little bit of structure, too. A good way of easing people out into the world.”

Choice seems like it should be a good thing. But then, when Tyler tries to think about what lies past the horizon of Dean getting here, his mind skitters away from the topic.

“There’s also more time here to – reflect. On the past. On things that might have happened.”

There’s a thought. Tyler sleeping peacefully, and Tanner pacing the room all night thinking about being locked up in Chicago or Wayne’s blood, or – whatever he was trying to get away from that made Manchester look like heaven on earth. Tyler thinks about the tight line of Tanner’s mouth and the uneasy, curled form of him in sleep.

He rubs his eyes. Pills. Talking. It all seems equally impossible. It was stupid to even bring it up.

She clears her throat gently. “I can set aside some appointment time?”

Tyler shakes his head. “No, I – ” The idea of getting Tanner to go to a doctor’s appointment with some stranger is absurd. Getting him to leave their room has been hard enough. “No, I don’t think he’d see a doctor.”

Her face is very still now. “It doesn’t have to be a doctor. It could be the pastor, or – ”

“No.” Tyler cuts her off. The idea of Tanner speaking to anyone is – well, not worth thinking about. Because it’s not going to happen. “No. Can we just – forget it?”

“Sure,” she says, after a beat. “Let’s see that arm.”

Tyler holds out his arm for her to examine. The angry red of the cut has faded into a complacent pink. The wound is jagged in places, shiny with scar tissue, but closed. She guides him through a series of motions, has him bend his wrist, close his fingers, make a fist. Stretch his hand flat.

Some of this is easy, although his thumb no longer wants to cross all the way over his palm to touch the tip of his pinkie.

“And sensation?” she asks.

“It’s better, I think. I mean, I think it’s getting better.” Tyler touches a spot at the crease of his wrist. “There’s just this one spot where I still can’t really feel anything.”

Her lips purse, and the lines in her forehead become more pronounced. She turns his arm this way and that, pressing lightly at the scar tissue. “That may improve. And your range of motion might get better with time.” But there’s a note of caution in her voice.

“But?” Tyler asks.

She looks up at him, his hand still held in hers. “But it may not.”

Tyler frowns down at her. “What does that mean?”

She hesitates again, choosing what she wants to say carefully. Too carefully, in Tyler’s opinion. She’s no longer smiling, but it’s not quite a frown, either. “I have good news and bad news.”

Tyler fights a tight feeling in his chest. “Okay?”

She says, “Well, you’re never going to play hockey again.”

Tyler pulls his hand from hers. He studies the scar, traces the shiny, pink skin. “Is that the good news or the bad news?”

When he meets her eyes again, she says, “It’s both.”

 

 

The sky outside the clinic is a solid gray. The snow has started coming down again, now mixed with rain. Tyler tugs his collar up, then buries his hands in his pockets. In a real city they’d have a skywalk, or a tunnel, or at least a covered walkway. And supposedly up in the really far north they make tunnels out of the snow itself to get around in the winter. He looks up at the sky and winces when cold rain hits his face. Even that might be an improvement – then at least he wouldn’t be getting soaked as he makes his way to dinner. 

Except if these paths were tunnels, they’d probably be even more crowded. Tyler is brushing past people left and right. The dining hall and clinic are both in the main cluster of buildings, and it feels like everyone at the Lake is concentrated in this small patch of space, heading to dinner, or off to their evening shifts, or home for the night. You’d think with so many people here, it might have occurred to someone to start widening these paths, or to get some gravel down before everything goes totally to mud. 

Tyler edges around a crew of workers spreading salt on the walkway, at the same time trying to avoid the worst of the muck. One of them calls out a greeting, but the speaker’s face is hidden by his hood and the growing dark. Tyler throws out a quick nod and hurries past. He’s probably being unfair. Everyone at the Lake is already working hard just trying to keep everyone fed and sheltered. 

Still. Someone ought to be planning for the future. He scowls. Richards would probably be doing a whole lot better planning for the future if he were ever here. 

Tyler edges into the bottleneck of people at the stairs leading up to the dining hall’s entrance. The air is full of the smell of sweat and wet wool. The other way to fix things would be to just have a lot fewer people here. Tyler uses the edge of a step to kick his boots free of slushy mud, frowning. That’s a darkly uncharitable thought. 

Possibly Tyler is just in a foul mood. 

He flexes the fist hidden in his pocket. His arm feels normal enough. It doesn’t hurt any more than its usual low, dull ache. So it could be worse.

It’s dumb to get upset about not being able to play hockey. There isn’t even any hockey to play. And even when the League starts up again – Tyler stops. _If_ the League starts up again – Tyler was never supposed to be a hockey player in the first place. The fact that he got to play at all was just due to everything getting as fucked up as it did. He never would have gotten to play if his parents’ hadn’t been desperate enough to stash him in Manchester.

Tyler makes it to the doorway of the dining hall and looks over the crowd. Lots of former hockey players in here. They’re easy to pick out. Tall. Broad shoulders. Crooked noses. Missing teeth. Inside his pocket, Tyler forms and releases a fist again. Probably most former players don’t think they _got_ to play. Probably most of them think they _had_ to.

Or if they did want to play, it’s because playing hockey was an escape from something worse – and not just the inevitable responsibility of becoming exactly like their father. Playing hockey wasn’t just a way of getting out of having to put a suit on every day, or putting off a life of shined shoes and a carefully knotted tie and the boredom of totaling up exactly how much per square foot could be spent on tiles or wood or cement.

For a split second, Tyler smells leather and cologne and cigar smoke. He feels the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder so clearly that if he just doesn’t turn around, he can believe his father is standing right behind him. Closing his eyes, Tyler can see his face, clean-shaven and smiling, Tyler’s mother standing next to him.

A cold curl of guilt creeps through Tyler. Wherever they are now, he hopes they’re safe. He hopes they’re comfortable. Imagining his mother in some place like the rough cabin he had stayed in with Tanner, or the crowded, dingy building inhabited by Katrina and her people is impossible. And that’s not – that’s not wrong, is it? To want that, to yearn for that, even if – even if his father did do all the things people said he did.

He tried to make up for it. He tried to do good things. Tyler knows that. He built parks and schools and hockey rinks. And maybe that’s the most damning evidence of all that he really did build the prisons, too.

But his father won’t be building prisons after the war. He won’t have to. Because Tyler believes there’s no way his father would do that if he didn’t have to.

Tyler pauses. But if he’s not playing hockey, then when this is all over – when the war is settled, and he’s back with his parents, and things are normal – that will mean he’ll have to figure out what _he’s_ doing, too. And then do it.

The future seems to stretch very, very long in front of him, the unknown nature of it making his chest feel tight. Because looking around him – this can’t be all there is. There’s more out there than this muddy, overcrowded settlement on the edge of a frozen Lake. Maybe all the people crammed into the long tables in this dining hall can’t see that, but Tyler’s been educated enough to see that –

But if Tyler’s father built all those parks and schools with the wealth he gained from building prisons for the Union, then that means Tyler’s very education was built on the backs of all these people crowding around him now.

That means if anybody’s supposed to fix things, it’s Tyler.

Probably, this is what Wayne was getting at. Back when Tyler was so intent on not listening to him. Tyler’s heart is racing. He forces himself to breathe: slow inhales and long exhales.

“Hey, Tyler.” A girl’s voice startles him. The line has reached the serving station, and she’s holding out a ladle filled with potatoes.

He recognizes her as part of the crew that makes the weekly run to Longbow for gas, which means she’s in the garage on a regular basis. If Tyler were a better person, or if he weren’t in the middle of feeling panicked about the future, he’d remember her name. He manages a smile. “How’s it going?”

“Same old, same old.” She winks at him, and if she realizes he doesn’t remember her name, she doesn’t let on.

Tyler takes his food, nods a goodbye. Scanning the crowd, he finds Tanner sitting in as close to isolation as it’s possible to get in the crowded dining hall, at the very end of a long table, the drafty spot no one wants to sit in, nearest the doors to the outside.

Tyler starts toward him.

“Hey.” This time he’s stopped by Sam, who waves him down. Sam gestures at the table he and Alex are sitting at. “Wanna sit with us?” Next to him, Alex is looking at him, clearly surprised by the gesture, but she does, actually, slide over to make space. This is an unprecedented thawing.

Tyler is startled into a smile, and his steps slow, then stop.

Sam lifts his eyebrows in hopeful question.

He wants to. The offer makes him feel warm. But he can’t. Tanner would be hurt. “I – sorry, I can’t.” He gestures vaguely with his tray towards Tanner. “I’ll see you guys at the garage tomorrow?”

Sam shrugs. “Sure. See you tomorrow.” Alex makes a point of looking as though she doesn’t care, and even though Sam won’t even remember Tyler blowing him off, Tyler still feels bad.

He sits down across from Tanner. Tanner glances up briefly at him; dark circles are still visible under his eyes. His tray is mostly untouched. Tyler frowns. “Hey.”

Tanner glances up again. “Hey.”

Tyler nudges Tanner’s tray. “Not hungry?”

Tanner looks at the food, and like it’s just occurred to him, begins to eat.

“So how was – ”

Somewhere at the far end of the room, someone drops a stack of trays. The clatter echoes through the room, startling both of them.

The noise is followed by scattered applause from the tables. Tyler looks over to see a chagrined kitchen worker taking a mock bow. Tyler turns back, shaking off the brief rush of adrenaline, but Tanner looks rigid.

Tyler gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Relax.”

Tanner swallows. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Tanner?”

Tanner takes a breath, and when he looks up, he has a perfect, chipper smile fixed in place. His eyes are bright, and if it wasn’t for the way one of his hands still had a white-knuckled grip on the other, Tyler would never know the expression was fake.

Tanner says, “I think I’m going to head back to the room. I’m not really hungry.”

Tyler frowns. The last thing Tanner needs is more time spent sitting alone in that room. He hesitates. “Alex and Sam – from the garage – are over at the other table. We could go say hello?”

A flicker of strain crosses Tanner’s face, like that mask might break. Tanner shakes his head. He recovers, and his shoulders roll loosely in a shrug. “Naw. You can though, I don’t mind.”

Doesn’t mind like he doesn’t care? Doesn’t mind like he wants to be alone? Doesn’t mind like _what?_

Tanner stares back at him, with just the tiniest quaver in his lips giving away how much work it is to keep smiling.

“Okay,” Tyler says slowly. His own dinner sits in a hard lump in his stomach. He pushes what’s left on his tray around with his fork.

Back in Manchester, when he and Tanner had first met, they’d hardly spoken. And if they did speak, it was mostly to yell. Tyler had said some pretty awful stuff to Tanner.

Tanner said some really awful things to him.

This feels worse. They’ve slept together. Tanner has held him. Tyler has felt Tanner’s fingers curl around his waist. He knows the way Tanner likes to stretch and sprawl when he’s feeling lazy. He knows what his smile looks like when Tyler really, honestly makes him laugh.

Tanner’s smiling at him right now, but it’s stiff and closed off. It’s a smile he’d give to anyone, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

Tanner can’t keep doing this, pulling into himself, wrapped up tight and silent. He’s going to be quiet for so long, that one day Tyler is going to look up and he’s just going to be _gone_. He’ll have gone completely away, without Tyler ever knowing how it happened. Tyler pushes his tray away. “Are you – okay?”

When he risks looking up, Tanner is frowning at him, like Tyler is being weird.

Tyler drops his gaze again. “I just, you seem – uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.” Tanner smiles again, but there’s a sharper edge to it now. “I’m just tired. I worked all day.”

“No, I mean – ” Tyler returns to picking at the table top. The wood is old, but nobody’s carved their initials in it. Probably this whole place used to be some kind of fishing lodge. A lakeside retreat. Too nice for the kind of people who would carve their initials into the wood. “In general. You just – you hardly spend any time out of our room. You won’t talk – ”

“Who do you want me to talk to, Tyler? Your friends?” Tanner’s smile cracks, his chin juts at where Alex and Sam are sitting. “I’m glad you’re having success slumming it. That doesn’t mean I have to.”

Tyler’s gaze snaps up – there’s a meanness in his voice that Tyler hasn’t heard since Manchester, and that isn’t fair. It’s not like this is easy for Tyler. It’s not like he makes friends everywhere he goes – that’s Tanner. Tanner’s supposed to be the one who fits in. But now Tyler has people who want to hang out with him. Who like him, maybe. Tanner should be happy for him. “Come on.”

“Come on what?” 

Now Tanner’s just being a dick. Tyler scowls. “I can have friends here. Just because you’re so intent on being miserable here – ”

Tanner scoffs. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Tyler presses on. He can feel his face getting heated. “And I don’t understand why. Even if we’re not here forever, this is a decent place – ”

Tanner rolls his eyes. 

Tyler rolls his back. “It’s safe here. There are helpful people here. And there’s structure here – the doctor said you’re supposed to like structure. It’s supposed to help – ”

Tanner cuts him off. “What doctor?”

Tyler closes his mouth so fast he nearly bites his tongue. But there’s no taking the words back now. He shrugs, trying to make his voice casual. “I went to the doctor today. For my arm.”

Tanner stills at the mention of Tyler’s arm. He eyes dart automatic to the where the wound is hidden by Tyler’s sleeve.

Tyler tucks his arm in his lap.

Tanner swallows. “What did the doctor say?”

Tanner is watching him so intently, Tyler has to look away. He shrugs again. “It’s – she said it’ll probably – I mean it’ll keep getting better slowly. But listen – ”

Tanner’s eyes are wide and unblinking. “But it is going to get all the way better, right? It’s going to be like it was?”

“I mean – ” But there’s no good way to finish the sentence. 

Tanner swallows hard. “I’m sorry about your arm.” His voice is low. 

“That’s not – ” Tyler doesn’t want an apology; that’s not what he’s driving at, at all. “What happened to my arm wasn’t your fault.” Tyler takes a steadying breath. “I won’t be playing hockey again – but it’s not like I was going to anyway. But that’s not what I’m trying to talk to you about.” 

Tanner doesn’t say anything. He looks shocked. His eyes are still wide and staring; his back is rigid. Tyler reaches out cautiously to take one of his hands. 

Tanner doesn’t respond to Tyler’s touch. His fingers are unmoving in Tyler’s grasp. Tyler clears his throat. “Tanner.” Tyler takes a deep breath. “We also – the doctor and me – we talked about if, like, if someone was having trouble sleeping –”

At this, Tanner’s eyes snap to his, something dangerous and shadowed in his gaze. “You were talking to the doctor about me?”

Tyler is fucking this up again. “No. Not about you specifically, just – ” He can’t find the words he wants, and stumbling like this, Tanner probably thinks he’s lying through his teeth. “No,” Tyler says firmly. “Just, like - in general.”

Tanner’s eyes are glittering, very sharp and very dark. His voice is all low, false calm. “I’m not crazy.”

Jesus. “Well, you’re _acting_ crazy – ”

Tanner’s grip on his hand tightens. “I’m _not_.”

“I _know_.” Tyler swallows. “But. Just – look. Chicago was really shitty. Manchester was shitty, and losing Vey and Wealer was – ” Tyler has to stop and take a breath. “Hard. It was really hard.” He places his other hand over Tanner’s. “But Dean wanted us here because it’s safe. We’re not here forever, but until the war’s over, this is the best place we could be.” He tries to stare that truth into Tanner. That this place is the best they have. This place is the best they’re going to get. Where else could they be together like this?

Where else could he hold Tanner’s hand?

Tanner mumbles something too low for Tyler to hear.

Tyler leans forward. “What?”

“I said,” Tanner’s voice still isn’t much more than a hiss. “Dean wanted _you_ here.”

Tyler shakes his head. “But if I’m here, I’m not going to let them do anything to you. You don’t have to worry – ”

Tanner looks sick.

“You don’t have to worry,” Tyler repeats. “You don’t have to be unhappy here.” In his head, he can hear Dr. Lavoie saying it, and he wants to sound like her. Like it was natural to be concerned, like he cares – but Tyler can’t quite make the words sound right. “And it’s normal – and I – there are options. People who can help you be – less unhappy here.” He finally stumbles to a close.

Tanner stares at him, flat through all of it. “Who says I’m unhappy?”

Tyler’s mouth works. “You hardly leave our room. You don’t have friends – ” He shakes his head, glancing at all the people around them. He lowers his voice, even though everyone else is eating and noisy and happily oblivious. “I know you weren’t always – comfortable – before, like in Manchester. But you could, I don’t how to say it. Fake it. Make people believe you were. And now you just – ”

Tanner’s face has lost what little color it has. “Stop.” He hunches forward, breathing long, careful breaths. “I need to get out of here.”

Tyler looks down at Tanner’s hand, trying to pull out of his. Tyler is really on a fucking roll for making things worse tonight. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry about – all of it. We don’t have to talk about any of this. And you don’t have to talk to anybody you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse, honest, I – ”

Tanner stands. “I just really need to leave – ”

Tyler’s stomach drops – like leave the Lake? Like leave forever? The thought brings a wash of cold terror. “What do you – ”

“I need air – ”

Tyler stands too. “I’ll go with you – ”

Tanner looks at him for a half second, face twisted with something like guilt, before turning away. “No, Tyler. I don’t want you with me.”

Tyler glances toward the cold, wet, dark outside, then back at Tanner, bewildered. “But where are you going? You can’t just take off.”

Tanner pauses, mouth open like he’s searching for words he can’t find before something mean cuts through his panicked look. “Why does it matter where I’m going? It’s not like I can _go_ anywhere.” He stares down at Tyler. “I always have to come back to wherever you are, don’t I?”

Like that’s something horrible. That stings, and Tyler can feel blood rushing to his face, heat pricking at the corner of his eyes. He swallows. “You don't have to do anything.” 

Tanner’s face is flushed too, high spots of red in his cheeks. “You just said I can't go. So, which is it, Tyler?”

Tyler flushes, tongue tied in a knot. And before he can answer, Tanner walks away.

 

 

Tyler stares at the dining hall doors swinging shut behind Tanner. He stays frozen in place, waiting for Tanner to come back. Tanner can’t leave like that. He can’t say those things, and then just _leave_.

But Tanner doesn’t come back.

Tyler’s breathing hard, hurt melting into anger. He’s ready to chase after him and yell –

Except, Tanner made it pretty clear what he wants. Tanner wants to be left alone.

Or at the very least, he wants to be away from Tyler.

The room feels too warm now. Their whole fight had taken place in hissed whispers, the people around them, loitering over their dinner don’t seem aware that anything of importance has happened at all. But it still feels like their eyes are on him. Sweat starts to gather at his hairline; the collar of his sweater begins to itch.

He jumps when someone walks too close. Tyler needs to not be around people. He needs to not be here.

Tanner will have probably gone straight back to their room, which means Tyler can’t go there. Unless Tanner didn’t go back to their room, in which case Tyler doesn’t know where he would go. What if he doesn’t come home at all? And suddenly a hard lump in Tyler’s throat is making it even harder to breathe.

Tyler shuts his eyes. Whatever the solution is, it is clearly _not_ standing here, panicking in a room that smells like burned grease and stewed carrots. Tyler looks towards the doors again. He could go to the garage – but it’s probably locked up for the night. It would almost be worth breaking in, just for the peace and quiet. Except Buster would just make him fix it tomorrow, and would probably yell at him, too.

There are gathering spaces where people meet to hang out and play music in the evenings, but Tyler doesn’t want to be around people. Usually when people want to be alone here, they head out to the lake shore, except it’s freezing out there right now, landscape going to ice under a half-frozen rain.

But there is one indoor spot that’s deserted virtually 24/7.

Tyler turns towards the library.

 _Library_ is sort of a glorified name for it – it’s just a room on the ground floor of the main lodge, crowded with piles of books, and dusty binders, and reams of paper. People occasionally come by to borrow something to read, or to donate books that they’ve found out in the world. But most of the traffic the library gets, is because the library is where the List is.

The List is actually two lists. They’re not even in the library proper. Both of them are posted in the hallway just outside the door, nothing fancier than two clipboards, each hanging on a nail, one to either side of the doorway.

The one to the left of the door is labeled _Seeking_ , and it’s where people come to add the names of their loved ones to the list of people being looked for. The names are scrawled on unlined paper, some neat, some barely legible, in pencil and all different colors of pen.

His first full day there, Irene had showed him this list, and Tyler had added two names to it:

_Toffoli, Peter_  
_Toffoli, Elizabeth_

The second list hangs to the right of the door and is labeled _Information Found_. This list is typewritten, the page crowded with narrow rows of names printed in cheap ink, smudged in places from being handled. These names are listed in alphabetical order, and are followed by information on what happened to them.

The _Information Found_ list is updated every day, although Tyler has never seen who does the updating. He checks this list every morning, but he looks at it again now, anyway.

_Todman, Steven. Deceased, 6/19/2010_  
_Tody, Maria. Transferred to Ottawa, 4/4/2011_  
_Tody, Walter. Transferred to Ottawa, 4/4/2011_  
_Toledo, Camren. Decreased, 1/1/2009._

Tyler’s finger traces down the paper, pausing at the alphabetical jump that bypasses Toffoli. He taps the paper. Tody. Toledo.

Something tight and vise-like squeezes hard at his temples.

Tyler steps into the library proper. The collection of books is haphazardly stored, kept in no real semblance of order, except that fiction seems to be mostly stacked on one side of the room, and nonfiction on the other. Some of the books are in boxes. Some are stacked in long, leaning piles on the floor. A few of them are actually on shelves, but most of the shelf space is taken up not by books, but by rows and rows of three-ring binders. The binders are filled with reams of computer printouts. Some of them are filled with rows of names. Other with endless pages of numbers that look like dates, and still others hold pages that are just solid blocks of letters and numbers and symbols all jumbled together. Tyler has no idea why these binders have been given priority over the books. They hardly seem worth saving.

Tyler walks through the stacks, aimless at first. He pauses to kneel next to a box of musty paperbacks. Maybe he can bring Tanner some kind of peace offering. Tanner doesn’t want to leave their room, so maybe Tyler can bring him something that will let him be less miserable in it.

The box is filled with pulp detective stories and romance. Some of the covers are ripped or spotted with mildew, or missing entirely. The spines are cracked and battered. Tyler checks the copyright page to find the publication date. Most of these predate the Union – which means someone saved them. Trashy as they are, someone worked to keep these safe and away from prying eyes. Tyler digs through the pile, thinking the whole time about that person, whoever they were, packing pulp novels away and hiding them like they were treasures.

He offers a silent word of thanks, and picks two, choosing them more for their covers than anything else: a red-headed woman with wind-whipped hair thrusting herself against an improbably muscled man. A man in a fedora and trench coat surrounded by shadows.

Not exactly the kind of thing his parents would think of as great art, but they do manage to get their lurid points across. Tyler pauses, smoothing back the dog-eared corner of the detective novel’s cover. He remembers plenty of evenings listening to his parents and their friends debate what was art. What was good art. What was great art. He imagines his mother winding her way among these shelves, imagines what she’d say – _whoever curates this shows a real lack of respect for the Symbolists, not a single work by Rimbaud –_

And he can hear Dean, just as clearly. _“Good for them. A drunk and a failure who should have focused on selling coffee beans.”_

It was nearly always Dean who his mother went toe-to-toe with on the subject of literature, long after Tyler’s father had dropped out of the conversation. “Wake me when you get around to discussing someone who writes in decipherable sentences,” he would say. And leave Tyler’s mother laughing, Dean next to her at the bar. His hand on her elbow.

Tyler frowns. His parents and Dean aren’t here, so none of what they would have to say matters. He holds the books a little tighter to his chest. It’s a miracle that these books survived at all, and just because they aren’t as famous, or aren’t talked about in fancy lectures, or –

Tyler cuts off the thought. They’re not even here, and he’s still arguing with them. He rolls his eyes at himself and waves the books at the ghosts of his parents and Dean. “I’m working with what I’ve got, okay? Lay off.”

And the fact that he’s now talking to people who aren’t here is probably a sign he’s too tired for any more thinking tonight. Maybe Tanner’s back at their room. Maybe he’s ready to talk.

Sighing, Tyler starts for the door. But as he moves between the stacks, his way is blocked by several binders that have been pulled off one of the lower shelves, and now lie on the floor, flipped open. And that definitely weren’t there when he made his way back here.

He’d say they fell, except they’re lined up in a neat row. As if someone pulled them down to reference something, and then forgot to put to put them back.

Tyler glances around, but the room is just as still and quiet as it was when he came in. The doorway to the hall has been in sight the whole time, and he would have heard if someone entered. The hairs on the back of Tyler’s neck start to rise. He edges forward, toward the binders, and looks down at them. They’re each open to pages containing names followed by long strings of characters that look like gibberish.

They look indecipherable, but clearly someone’s looking at them. Someone’s using them for something. Tyler frowns, looking around again.

This back corner of the room smells like dust and old paper. It’s near silent – quiet enough that when he stands still, Tyler can hear a soft, scraping noise. The sound of chair legs dragging across the floor. He freezes, searching the room for the source of the sound.

He doesn’t see anyone. There’s no one else here.

But the direction the sound is coming from, at the very far end of the room, there’s a door. Tyler has always ignored it, had ignored it tonight, because it’s always been shut, the room beyond dark. No matter what time of day he came by, he’s never seen anyone go in or out.

But tonight, Tyler can see light spilling out from the crack underneath. Tyler can see the shadow of someone walking past the doorway, and the sounds of someone moving inside. He waits as long as he dares, standing frozen between the shelves, but no one comes out.

 

 

Tyler starts up out of sleep to the distant sound of the seven a.m. bell echoing through the air, and the clomping of feet outside.

He was dreaming, and he comes awake with adrenaline still clinging to him. And before anything else, he looks over at the other side of the bed, to see if –

To see Tanner, stretched out next to him. Asleep.

Tanner wasn’t back when Tyler finally dragged himself home from the library last night. The room was cold and dark. And he hadn’t come home while Tyler waited, not while he paced their tight quarters, and not even after he’d stretched out on the bed – and in a desperate effort to distract himself, made it all the way through the detective novel, and a chapter into the romance before he must have drifted off.

Frowning, Tyler feels in the blankets for the book, but he can’t find it.

But Tanner is here now, and Tyler studies his sleeping form. Tanner is lying on his back, cracked lips parted, breathing slow and even. Tyler watches the rise and fall of his chest, and there – caught between Tanner’s chest and the blanket, he spots the novel. Fingers of Tanner’s hand still holding his place between the pages.

This is the boy he met in Manchester, who saved his life in those hills, and took care of him in Hamden. This is the boy who held him, and held him together, when everything else fell apart.

The temptation to touch him is so strong. Tyler wants to smooth the twisted sheets, to push back that too-long hair. He wants to curve his body against Tanner’s, wind his arms around Tanner’s waist, and to hold him, reassure both of them that he’s here. Solid and whole and unharmed.

Except that Tanner is, for once, resting; the lines of his shoulders loose and relaxed, his face unlined in sleep.

Tyler leaves without waking him.

 

 

A bracing wind is coming off the lake as Tyler heads to work, bringing with it the smell of the water and the cold. Through the trees, Tyler can see flashes of the early morning sun glinting off the water, and the crumpled lines of ice and frost that run along the shore. Every morning, he walks this path to work, and every morning that ice stretches further and further out. He tucks his hands down into his pockets, ducks his chin against the wind.

Inside the garage, Buster is grumbling. Apparently everyone’s day is off to a rough start. Buster smacks the side of the coffee pot with one of his broad hands. “Cold weather makes it stiffen up,” he mutters.

Tyler’s not sure if he’s talking about his hand or the pot’s wiring. He sinks into one of the chairs, not eager to leave the warmth of the office.

Alex and Sam enter just a moment after. Buster glances up as they come in, focusing on Alex. “We got three engines that need to be totally rebuilt. Two different people have already bitched at me about our turnaround time this week, so don’t start.”

Sam drops into the chair next to Tyler, Alex taking the once next to him.

“Ten functional snow tires to distribute to four vehicles.” Buster hits the coffee maker again, which begins, reluctantly, to hiss. “I need sandbags. But is anyone bringing me sand? No. The fuck does a person have to do to get a half ton of sand?” He turns and gives Tyler a pointed look. “And we need gaskets. God, I used to order gaskets by the dozen. When I had my own shop – ” He trails off for a moment, looking up at the ceiling with an expression just as wistful as Tyler has ever looked remembering his mother’s cooking, or coffee, or any of the comforts of home.

“I’d call up a supplier and people jumped to bring me gaskets. You’d call and they’d be there that very afternoon. And engine oil.” He shakes his head again, and looks at Tyler again. “We need engine oil. At least a dozen quarts.”

Mentally, Tyler is already scrambling, trying to figure out how they’re going to make ten tires work on four cars. He assembles a list of things to look for in the treasure chest: sand, gaskets – he pauses, irritated. Does Buster mean the one inch ones? Probably, but Tyler should probably also grab the inch-and-halfs. Unless they have trucks in. Do they have any trucks in? He tries to remember what’s on the shop floor and the docket, but his mind is still half-asleep, too tired to focus. He needs a pencil; he’s going to forget half of this stuff before he gets out the door, and then Buster will really be pissed. He glances over at Alex and Sam, to see if they’re equally overwhelmed.

But Alex doesn’t look stressed at all. She has a faraway look on her face. She nods, occasionally murmuring agreement. Sam is grinning, like this is a sport. “What’d you get paid to patch a tire back in the day, Buster?” He’s egging him on.

“We used to throw old tires _out_. Just because they were worn.” Buster pauses, wagging a finger at each of them in turn. “Just because they were worn,” he repeats, pausing between each word to indicate his seriousness.

The machine finally sputters out some coffee, and Buster begins handing mugs around.

Buster mutters, “What I ought to do, is throw away all the treadless tires around here the next time someone bitches at me about a blowout. See how they like riding on rims.”

Alex still isn’t paying the least bit of attention, Sam’s still grinning. Tyler starts to relax. He nods back at Buster, and that’s all he needs to do. That’s all this morning requires. Alex leans back in her chair, two legs coming off the ground, back hitting the wall at what is clearly a long-practiced angle. She stretches, and catches Tyler looking at her. She stares back for a moment, those black eyes giving nothing away, and then, very small, one eyebrow quirks, and she gives him something that is almost a grin.

“Some mornings you just gotta let him go on for a bit,” she says, under her breath.

“I heard that,” Buster says, and then picks up where he left off.

When Buster’s done ranting, and they’ve all consumed enough coffee to convince them the day is worth living, Tyler follows her out onto the shop floor. “How can I help?”

Alex has hold of the logbook – yesterday’s entries for arrivals take up a whole page – and she’s focused on it, eyebrows drawn together, and serious as a climber at the base of Mt. Everest. “We have a whole line of engines that need to be flushed and oil replaced with low temp stuff. And those snow tires have to go on.” She pause, looking up at him. “You can do that, right?”

It’s tempting to say, yes, of course he can do that. He’s been here for weeks now, hasn’t he? And if Tyler was still the kid he was in Manchester, he might. But – he’s not. Plus, everybody here just does the work until it’s done, in the most efficient way possible when there’s never enough hands or supplies to do it, and that’s the stuff she thinks Tyler can handle on his own. “Yeah.” Tyler nods. “I can do that.”

Her finger traces down the page. “What about a radiator? Can you handle that?”

It’s just an honest question, Tyler reminds himself. Not a challenge. He nods, a bit slower this time. “I think so.”

She hesitates, narrowing her eyes at him.

“If I have any questions, I’ll ask.” He looks down, meeting her eyes. “Promise.”

She nods back at him. “Okay, cool.” Then, like the moment’s grown awkward, she turns away. “Buster, you ready to start pulling those hydraulics apart?”

See? That wasn’t so hard. He can ask. He can learn. He can actually do things without fucking up. Sometimes. And Tyler might just be killing time here, but that doesn’t mean that this work isn’t important, or that they’re aren’t good people here. Tyler pops the hood, staring into the abyss of metal and plastic and wires. No matter what the future looks like, it’s probably going to need people who know how to fix engines. And it’s definitely going to need good people.

He pokes among the wires. Like, this thing used to be a completely impenetrable puzzle – but now, because Buster and his crew made a place for him, and taught him, whole parts of it make sense.

Tyler frowns. Tanner just needs to stop making himself miserable. Things are better than they were, and once Tyler’s parents and Dean show up, they’re going to get better still.

Tyler hesitates just for a second, fingers pausing in their actions. He dismisses the doubt. Of course they are.

 

 

Oil changes and tires carry him through lunch and most of the afternoon. Late in the day, Tyler turns his attention to the radiator.

He wedges his fingers under the steel brackets, feeling for looseness. This would be easier with two sets of hands, but everyone else is busy. Sam is buried elbows deep in a tractor and Tyler can see Alex and Buster across the shop floor, both underneath a truck that’s up on the hydraulic lift.

There are two lifts on the garage floor, but only one of them works. One of these days, Tyler is going to figure out how to fix the other one. Things around here would get done twice as fast that way. Irene’s offered them more labor, but what they really need is for the machinery to work consistently. That’s the real bottle neck.

The last bracket finally comes loose, and Tyler eases the broken radiator free. He sets it on the shop floor to contemplate.

Buster steps out from under the truck, Tyler sees it as a flash of the purple knit cap he always wears. Buster is a favorite of the knitting set, although when Tyler had asked who in particular had made this one, he’d turned a bit pink and wouldn’t name names.

Tyler grins, calls out, “Hey,” and waits for Buster to look over. “Is this salvageable?”

Buster squints at the radiator from across the floor. “It sure as hell better be.”

There are fewer cars on the road in winter. Which means fewer opportunities for spare parts to come in. There’s probably a town somewhere sitting on a whole, huge pile of functional radiators. The Lake just doesn’t have a way of getting in touch. Or getting them here.

Tyler stares down at the busted radiator. The image of dozens of pristine parts just sitting around in a warehouse somewhere going unused is grating. Something else to figure out how to fix: not just the radiator, but how to _get_ radiators.

Buster hovers just over his shoulder. Tyler nudges the broken radiator with his foot. Fixing it is gonna be more trouble than it’s worth, Tyler can feel it.

What they need is a better way of getting the word out about what parts they need. Tyler says, “You know, when people leave the Lake, we should just, like, give them a list of things we need. Then we ask them to make a copy of it before if they meet somebody going somewhere else. And so on. And then pretty soon, everywhere knows what we need. If we ended up with too much of one thing, we could put that info out as well. It would work sort of like this relay system Jon Quick has back east – ”

Buster drops a hand onto Tyler’s shoulder. “Tyler.”

Tyler stops and turns.

Buster looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Just fix my radiator, okay?”

If Tyler learned anything in Manchester, it was when to keep his head down. “Yes, sir.”

Buster gives him a small shake. But not hard, and he does it grinning. He kneels, making a face when his knees hit the cement. “Now. Let’s take a look at this thing. You know where to start taking it apart?”

Tyler points to the bolts, reaching for the wrench. “Yeah.”

He sets to work, but he can still feel Buster watching him. Buster picks up one of the cast off bolts, turning it in his fingers. “So this relay plan of yours – think it would work with a – like a checklist?”

“A checklist would probably be even better – if we could standardize it – ” Tyler pauses to tug at the radiator’s casing, “ – it would make things simpler.”

Wordlessly, Buster points to a divot in the metal where it will be easier to get leverage. “It’s not a bad idea.” He pats Tyler’s shoulder.

Across the floor, the front door chimes, and Mike Richards enters. He gives Tyler a brief, unreadable look and nods to Buster. “You got a minute?”

“Sure, sure.” Buster levers himself up. “This about the antennae?”

“Yeah. Did those drawings help?”

“Well, I got a model worked out. But we’re still gonna need coaxial cable – ”

Richards makes a grumbling noise, and Tyler listens, while keeping his eyes carefully on radiator in front of him. His hands moving just enough to look busy.

“Oh, come on.” Buster sounds only lightly sarcastic. “How hard can it be?”

Richards draws a hand down his face. “Plenty fucking hard, believe me. I wanna see that model, though.” And they start to move towards the office, falling out of earshot.

How _do_ you build an antennae? Tyler wonders. Or a better question – what do you build an antennae for? The obvious answer is communication. He pauses. So that could be good. They could get back in touch with other places. Maybe that means talking to Dean sooner rather than later. Maybe he’ll get to ask Dean about the letter. Tyler’s thoughts slip back to Wayne, back to how he’s doing, and how the last time Tyler saw him, he was all covered in –

“Tyler?”

Tyler blinks, looks up.

Alex is standing over him. “Something more to that radiator than meets the eye?”

Confused, Tyler continues to blink up at her. He realizes he’s just been sitting here, staring at the thing, and hasn’t made any progress since Buster left. Which was who knows how long ago. “No, I was just – thinking about stuff.”

Alex narrows his eyes. “Stuff, huh.” She manages to pack a lot of judgment into her deadpan tone.

Tyler ducks his head. “Yeah. Sorry, I – ” He reaches for the wrench again.

“Leave it.”

Tyler frowns.

“I mean.” She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I just mean it’s late – Buster’s gonna be in there awhile. We might as well leave this until tomorrow.”

Her mouth curves in a hesitant, awkward smile. And this, Tyler realizes, is Alex trying to be friendly. She looks at him, as if she’s waiting for him to say something.

Tyler’s mind blanks in surprise.

Alex watches him, one eyebrow climbing, then turns to go.

God, Tyler wishes he weren’t so bad at this. “Wait.”

She turns.

“Do you think – could I ask you a couple questions about the motorcycle? The one I’ve been working on?” As if there were more than one. Tyler winces at his own awkwardness.

But she stops. She turns. “Sure.”

He’s already second-guessing himself. “I mean if you don’t have time – ”

“I was planning on staying to work on my truck anyway.” Her voice is gruff, but Tyler thinks maybe she does look pleased to be asked. She raises her eyebrows at him, makes an impatient gesture for him to lead on.

Tyler walks with her to the motorcycle, now parked in the corner of the garage. He kneels beside it, prods at a worn-looking clutch plate. “I know I’m gonna need to replace that.”

She kneels next to him. “Yeah. Probably the pistons too.” She leans closer, peering intently. “And the piston rings. Pins. The carb adaptor.”

Fuck, Tyler needs to start writing all this down. “Do we have any of those?”

“Most of them, probably.” She looks at him, almost-smiling again. “I don’t know if you noticed, but Buster is kind of a pack rat.”

Tyler pictures the maze of parts out behind the shop. “Okay, then maybe I should be asking – does he know where any of those things are?”

Alex does grin now. “I’m sure he does. But knowing him, he’ll think it’s character building to make you look for them.”

Tyler laughs.

Alex stands. “Anyway. That probably gives you enough to work on tonight.”

“That gives me enough to work on for a month.”

“It’ll go faster than you think.” She moves away to inspect one of the wheel wells on her truck, snagging a rag from her back pocket to wipe at some invisible mar.

Tyler clears his throat. “Where’s Sam tonight?” Usually, wherever Alex is, Sam’s never far.

Alex glances back at Tyler. “NA,” she says. She holds up a hand, fingers miming taking a drag from an invisible cigarette. “Today, he decided he wants to quit.” She shakes her head. “Of course, who the hell knows how any of it is going to stick.” She shrugs. “But, who am I to say he can’t do it?”

Tyler nods at this. “Good for him?” he offers.

She narrows her eyes, an expression that reminds Tyler of Buster. “Exactly.” Then she turns her attention back to the truck in front of her, running one hand along the grill, pausing to examine some flaw too small for Tyler to see.

She treats that truck with such tenderness you’d think it was a kid. “You spend a lot of time on that truck.”

Alex looks up again, amused now. “Yeah, well. This thing’s served me well. Carried me all the way from Juneau.”

Tyler turns the maps he studied as a kid over and over in his mind, frowning. “Wait. Isn’t Juneau, like, on the west coast?”

She looks surprised that he knows. Almost impressed. “Yep.”

“That’s – holy shit, that’s gotta be like – over two thousand miles.”

Her expression is smug. “I wasn’t counting, but that sounds about right.”

Tyler considers the truck again with fresh eyes. “Jesus. And you and Sam drove here all the way from the coast in _that?_ ”

Alex snorts. “No. I picked up Sam in Winnipeg. Juneau to Winnipeg I did by myself.” There’s something like pride in her voice, and she steps back, appraising the truck with folded arms. “She’s solid. Plus, you have to admit, she’s pretty good looking.”

“I guess.” He grins and ducks his head at the mock-indignant glare she gives him. “Just, not – uh, not what I go in for.”

One of her eyebrows arches. “Oh, I _see_.”

Tyler can feel the start of a blush.

Alex shakes her head. “It’s getting late.” She hesitates. Her mouth twists, like she’s considering doing something she might regret. “And I’m hungry – you wanna go eat?”

Tyler plays it cool. “Sure.”

 

 

In the dining hall, Tyler scans the room for Tanner, but Tanner isn’t here. Tyler sits across from Alex, tries to shake off the anxiety that Tanner’s absence causes, and plasters a smile on his face. He lets Sam and Alex carry the conversation through the meal, until Sam plants both his elbows on the table and looks at Tyler. “So, are you coming out tonight?”

Tyler blinks at him. “Out where?”

Sam looks at Alex. Alex shrugs, and Tyler can see color edging into her face. “I’m singing with my friend Dave’s band tonight, at the rotunda.”

The rotunda is one of the places people like to congregate after hours, Tyler has heard the music floating across the commons before. “I didn’t know you were a singer.”

“Well.” Alex still looks uncomfortable. “You don’t come out much.”

That’s true enough.

“You should come,” Sam says. “She’s good.”

Tyler frowns at him. “I mean – I don’t want to offend, but how do you know how good she is?”

“Because,” Sam grins, “I wrote it down in my diary.”

“You should come,” Alex says. Then she hesitates. Sam gives her a pointed look, which grows steadily more intense the longer she stays quiet. He finally jabs an elbow into her side. Alex throws him an insulted look. Her mouth twists. “You live with the new guy on the greenhouse crew, right?” A vague flip of her hand. “You could bring him.”

Tyler hesitates. She seems to find the very idea of him bringing Tanner distasteful. Although earlier, she hadn’t seemed to have a problem with Tyler’s preferences. Unless Tyler totally misinterpreted that. He looks back and forth between Alex and Sam, but Sam’s face is as blithely friendly as ever, and Alex is looking away.

The whole question is probably actually moot, since Tyler doesn’t know if he could convince Tanner to come out at all. Or if he’d have fun if he did. He grinds a burned bit of roll into his plate. “I don’t know.” It’s frustrating that Tanner won’t just – that he won’t just deal with the fact that they’re _here._ That this is what they have now, and they need to make it work.

Except that’s selfish – the realization springs back at him almost at once. Nobody, including Tyler, ever asked Tanner if this is what he wanted. Not that he’ll tell Tyler what he does want or why he’s unhappy – but – Tyler should be trying harder. Tyler should be focusing on him, prioritizing him. Not people he just met. Not going out. Definitely not working late on some dumb motorcycle.

But it would be fun to go. Tyler drags his fork through what’s left of his dinner. “I’ll ask him. See if he wants to come out.”

Her mouth twists again. “Sure.”

Maybe it’s just that she’s noticed what a recluse he’s been. Tyler ducks his head. “He hasn’t been feeling well lately, but I’ll ask.”

Still not looking him in the eye, Alex raises one very skeptical eyebrow. She doesn’t say anything.

Tyler frowns at her. “What?”

Alex studies her plate closely. “He’s kind of a dick,” she says at last.

“He is not.” Tyler’s response is automatic. But Tyler thinks about Tanner hiding in their room, his refusal to talk to anyone at meals, his constant strained, sour look. “I mean, maybe he’s been standoffish since we got here, but he’s just – ” Tyler trails off. A lump is starting is form in his throat. “We went through a lot getting here. And he – ” Tyler swallows. He makes his hands, which have been twisting in front of him, still. “He didn’t want to come here. He’s only here because of me.” He looks up at Alex, willing her to understand.

Her gaze is quiet looking back at him, steady.

“And, actually I should – I should really – ” Tyler jerks a thumb in the direction of his room.

Alex nods. “See you if I see you.”

Tyler tries to smile. Tries to think of something to say, to let her know how much he appreciates it. But all he can manage is a wave. “Thanks.”

 

 

He could sell the music angle, maybe. Tanner might like to go listen to music. Or just the opportunity to get out for a change and walk around. They don’t have to stay long. He could say they could leave early, if there were too many people. Or too much noise, or –

Tyler hesitates on the steps leading up to their room. None of it sounds very convincing.

Tyler enters their room to find Tanner on the bed, reading. He looks better than he did yesterday. Calmer and more composed. His hair is damp and combed. It’s starting to get long; he’s pushed it back from his face. He’s reading, and the lamplight makes his face look young. He looks like the boy Tyler first met in Manchester, and that makes something twist hard in Tyler’s chest.

Tanner looks up.

Tyler hesitates in the doorway, then pulls it shut behind him. He makes his way closer to sit on the edge of the bed. “Hey.”

Tanner nods at him; his eyes return to the page.

“So.” Tanner doesn’t look up again, and so Tyler leans over, places a hand over Tanner’s, half covering the page. “Alex and one of her friends are playing some music at the rotunda tonight.”

Tanner looks half irked at Tyler’s interruption and half confused. He frowns at Tyler. “Okay?”

Tyler makes himself smile back. “She invited us out. If you want to go?”

Tanner puts the book aside, but he catches hold of a corner of the sheet, working the fabric between his fingers, instead. “I don’t know. I’m tired.” He touches the small of his back and looks at Tyler. “Sore from work, you know?”

Tyler leans against the headboard, watching him. “You were out late last night.”

He’s half-anticipating some kind of explosion, but Tanner’s mouth just works for a second, and he shrugs. “I went for a walk. Ended up running into some of the guys I know from the greenhouse crew.” His eyes drop to his hands. “We hung out.”

“Oh.” It sounds so normal. Like hanging out with guys from the greenhouse is a normal thing Tanner might do. And it would be, except that Tanner hasn’t been doing any of the normal things Tanner might do since he got here. “We wouldn’t have to stay long. This would be a chance to hang out with people.” Tyler tries to sound inviting. “Music, you know? Could be fun.”

Tanner hesitates, still twisting the fabric in his hands into knots. “You're the one who said I wasn't good at faking it anymore.”

“Then don't fake it.” Tyler sighs, and it’s hard not to sound exasperated. “I know you’re not happy about being here, but – ”

And that’s the most frustrating thing. The Lake might not be perfect, but where else are they going to find that’s safe? That will accept them – will accept _Tyler_ , even with who his parents are? That will shelter them until – until whatever happens next. “You have every reason to be happy here – this is a good place."

Tanner’s eyes cut over. “How do you know?”

His tone is so suddenly sharp that Tyler’s mouth falls open in surprise. “How do I – Tanner, they’re giving us a place to live. They’re giving us food. Fuck, I might just be fixing cars, but they think they’re giving us _life skills_. They’re trying to _help_ us.”

“You,” Tanner says, with more force behind it. “They’re trying to help _you_. If it was just me, they would have tossed me out, right at the start.”

“You don’t know that,” Tyler insists.

“You don’t know that they _wouldn’t_ – I’m not anything here. I’m not _anything_ – ”

“Tanner. Jesus. You’re not – ” Tyler shakes his head; Tanner’s so adamant. His mouth is a hard, white line. He doesn’t sound rational. “You’re not making sense. Calm down.” Tyler pauses. “You are something.”

Tanner looks away.

Tyler frowns. “Whatever you’re thinking – it’s not true.”

Tanner’s eyes close. His whole body stills. “But I can’t stop – ”A tremble enters his voice. “I just can’t stop _thinking_ these things, over and over again.” He opens his eyes only to stare again at the stupid sheet in front of him, twisting it endlessly between his fingers.

He needs to just _let it go._ Tyler tugs the sheet out of his hands. “I don’t understand. It’s like you’re trying to be miserable.”

Tanner’s hands shake for a moment, before he clamps them down into fists. Tyler can see his lip caught between his teeth, but he still won’t meet Tyler’s eyes. All around them, the room feel small and airless. Tanner holds himself rigid and perfectly still in the center of it. He looks so close to cracking, as if Tyler’s right on the edge of pinning him down, right on the verge of getting him to speak. “Tanner, you can talk to me.”

Tanner shakes his head, tight and fast. And then – something shifts in his posture. His shoulders loosen and he looks up at Tyler.

The look in his eyes shifts, desperation fading, and Tyler sees a flash of something calculating, there and gone almost too quick to see.

Tanner says, “Let’s not talk.” And now he’s looking at Tyler’s mouth.

He leans forward and kisses Tyler, hands moving to frame his shoulders, weight already shifting over him.

“Tanner – ” A fraction of Tyler’s mind says not to get distracted, some small sliver says this isn’t what they need, but Tanner’s hands are climbing his arms, winding around his neck. His fingertips press, individual and burning, at the nape of Tyler’s neck.

By the time Tyler can pull back to grab breath, Tanner has already started on the buttons of his shirt. He reaches for Tyler’s belt, moving so that Tyler’s legs and hips are trapped underneath him. 

Tyler wraps his arms around Tanner’s waist. His skin, even through the fabric of his shirt, is burning, and Tyler feels heavy, feels something start to coil and build, low in his stomach. “Are you sure – ”

“Come on. When’s the last time we did this?” Tanner tips Tyler’s head to the side and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh just under Tyler’s jaw, hard enough for it to sting. 

Tyler lets out a quick gasp. Tanner sucks at the flesh, his mouth trailing down to Tyler’s collarbone, tugging his shirt roughly out of the way. 

It’s been weeks since Tanner moved to touch him. “Okay.” Voice cautious, and Tyler’s trying to settle one of them, maybe both of them. “Okay.” His hips hitch, and his voice curls into a whine. 

Tanner pulls back. “Take your clothes off.”

Tyler grapples to comply, and Tanner sheds his own, his eyes on Tyler the whole time.

Tyler shivers. Tanner pins him back to the bed, kissing him quick and rough, over and over again, pulling back just when Tyler starts to gain his equilibrium, and starting up again before he can catch his breath.

He reaches for Tanner’s face, drags his fingers through Tanner’s hair, holds him closer. He runs a hand down his cheek, fingers curling around his jaw.

Tanner catches his hand, twines his fingers through Tyler’s. He stills for a moment, distracted as he inspects Tyler’s fingers, the roughened skin of his knuckles, one by one with such careful attention that Tyler’s heart catches hard and fast in his throat. He touches the tips of Tyler’s fingers, traces of black dirt still trapped under Tyler’s nails. Very slow, and very soft, Tanner brings Tyler’s hand up to his mouth and kisses it. His eyes meet Tyler’s. “How far you’ve fallen,” he says.

Tyler pulls his hand back. “What – ”

Tanner pushes Tyler’s legs apart.

The first time Tanner touched him, Tyler had broken into a million sharp-edged pieces. Tanner’s hands had eased some deep and brutal longing, had been like water in the desert, or like stepping in from the cold. And after that, everything in him had changed, right down to the core of him, right down to how he thought he could exist in the world, because there was no way to un-know. No way to un-see that cold desert for what it was, now that he had experienced this warmth.

Tyler grabs, trying for leverage, but he can’t focus, can hardly breathe. Tanner’s head is between his thighs, but who does he think Tyler is – and what does he see – and does he still look at Tyler and see the kid who didn’t grow up like him, who didn’t wear tags until he got to Manchester, who had clean hands and a big house, and everything handed to him?

Tanner rakes his nails down Tyler’s thighs.

Tyler gasps. Tanner’s mouth is on him, working him over, relentless, and Tyler abandons thought in favor of a pressing wave of need. Tyler can’t keep his eyes open, can’t keep his hips still. He lets his head fall back. He can feel Tanner’s hands on his hips, the rough scrape of his jaw against soft skin.

Tyler lets his fingertips rest light on Tanner’s shoulders. He touches Tanner’s cheek, the stretched shape of his mouth.

Tyler squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to slow it down, wants to make it last.

Tanner’s having none of it.

Tyler’s breath stutters, the pressure riding low in Tyler’s body intensifies, twists like a knot tightening, and Tyler comes with a groan.

Tanner moves up his body while Tyler is still trying to catch his breath. He presses his mouth to Tyler’s, catching all the ragged sounds of his breathing. His teeth drag over Tyler’s lip, and Tyler can feel him touching himself, can feel the pulse under his skin, so rapid it feels like panic, like the racing beat of something hunted.

Tanner stiffens against him, and he streaks a mess onto Tyler’s stomach.

He slumps next to Tyler, rise and fall of his chest still going quick. He rests with his eyes closed, an arm tucked under his head.

When he opens his eyes to find Tyler watching at him, he smiles, slow and warm. “Hey.”

Tyler loves him so much. “Hey.”

 

 

After Tanner has cleaned both of them off, he climbs into bed next Tyler – and everything feels just like how it’s supposed to be. Like they’re a normal couple, who have made love, who are holding each other, getting ready for sleep.

Tanner encourages Tyler onto his side. He wraps an arm around Tyler’s waist, and tucks himself close up against Tyler’s back. His knees press up against the back of Tyler’s knees, his breath tickles the nape of Tyler’s neck. Tanner sighs. “Goodnight, Ty.”

Tyler lies still, held in the circle of Tanner’s arms. He’s warm with Tanner pressed close against him. He got off, and that’s making his thoughts slow, pulling him towards sleep.

But he’s not asleep. Tyler holds himself very quiet and very still and looks out at the dark room. He would love to curl up and drift off just like this. This is supposed to be their life: working, and coming home to each other, and fucking when it feels good, and lying side by side. Tyler wants that. He wants to believe that Tanner wants that.

He wants to believe that tonight, Tanner wants to fall asleep, just like this.

But this isn’t how Tanner sleeps. Tanner would never in a million years fall asleep curled up against Tyler’s side.

This is how Tyler falls asleep. Tanner wants Tyler to fall asleep.

The thought sits in his stomach like a lead ball. The dark seems very thick around him.

Tyler closes his eyes. But he doesn’t sleep. He waits.

He’s close to sleep when Tanner gets up. So close he thinks he’s dreaming at first, imagining the creak of the bedsprings and his quiet sounds of Tanner dressing.

But he isn’t imagining the dull, near-silent scuffle of his boots against the floor, or the quiet click of the door opening, then whispering shut.

Tyler opens his eyes.

He rolls onto his back. He glances over at the empty space beside him, but the bed is really empty, and Tanner is really gone.

Tyler stares up at the darkened ceiling.

He could chase after him. Go trudging out into the cold and track him down, and – what exactly?

Drag him back, when the one thing he’s made clear is that he doesn’t want to be around Tyler?

Tyler traces a self-conscious hand over the skin on the inside of his thighs, runs hs tongue over his lips, touching all the places he feels bruised and raw. Except for the times he does want Tyler. If that was even about wanting Tyler at all.

Tyler can feel his eyes start to burn. His throat closes, and he can feel a sob trying to work its way free. He tugs Tanner’s pillow over his face to muffle the sound – then throws it across the room.

There’s no one in the room to hear him.

And just like always, there’s nothing to do but wait.

 

 

Tanner doesn’t come back until the shadows of the room start to lighten into an early morning gray. The door creaks open near-silent, and Tanner is just a shadow among shadows creeping inside.

“Where were you?” Tyler asks.

The shape of Tanner freezes. Then starts moving again, awkwardly shedding pieces of clothing, kicking free of his boots. He climbs into the bed with Tyler. He touches Tyler’s shoulder and his skin is like ice.

“Where _were_ you?” Tyler asks again.

Tanner sinks down, he grabs for the blanket and misses, pulling it over himself on his second attempt.

Tyler shakes him. “Well?”

“I had to go out.” Tanner’s voice is rough. His breath smells like alcohol.

Tyler frowns. “You had to – ” Tyler could scream. Tyler could hit him. Sneaking out like Tyler is some sort of minder and leaving him to worry. “Why?”

Tanner shrugs. “I had to,” he repeats. His voice is slurring, fading toward sleep.

“Where did you go?” Tyler’s throat is so tight it’s hard to get the words out.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Tanner says. He sounds now than half-asleep now. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

Tyler stares at his motionless form. Outside, the sun is just starting to come up. “Fuck you,” he says to Tanner.

Tyler shoves the covers back. Might as well get an early start on work, because _he’s_ not going to get any more sleep, that’s for sure.

Tanner reaches out, just as Tyler slips free of the bed. His fingers close around Tyler’s wrist. “I’m sorry.” The words are muffled, only just barely loud enough to here. “You know I want to be here with you.” His grip loosens, starts to slide free. “You know that, right?”

 

 

Whatever Tanner says he wants, it doesn’t stop him from being gone the next night. Or the next.

Sometimes Tyler wakes to the sounds of Tanner coming in late. Sometimes Tyler sleeps through until morning, and wakes to Tanner’s arm slung across his waist, his body still sour with the smell of sweat and his face turned away. Other mornings, Tanner will be curled at the far edge of the bed, as distant from Tyler as he can get, but with one arm extended, and the fingers of one hand clutched in an impossibly tight grip of Tyler’s t-shirt.

Tyler slips out from under him, or carefully frees himself from Tanner’s grasp, but he always leaves without waking him.

On these nights, when Tyler has to try to fall asleep alone, he watches the snow falling through the window, or he reads, or makes the darkness of the ceiling into diagrams of his motorcycle’s inner workings, plans what to fix next. The room around him always feels very still and very empty. When Tanner’s jacket and boots are gone, there’s nothing visible in the room to say he was ever there at all. There’s nothing of his on the shelves, nothing casually strewn on top of the dresser, or even kicked into the corner.

He’s not collecting anything here. No random bits of debris. No half-broken treasures. Nothing like the spaces he made for himself in Manchester or Hamden.

When he can’t read or think anymore, Tyler sits in the dark, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, hands pressed to his face, and tells himself he isn’t waiting up. Outside, the steps and the sounds of people coming back to their rooms after dinner have long since faded, and the snow muffles all other sounds. The whole world feels silent. The walls press close around him, and even the draft of warm air just seems to make his skin itch.

He turns over and over in his mind the possibility of tracking Tanner down. The Lake isn’t that big – he could find Tanner and drag him back. It wouldn’t be hard. Just a matter of dressing for the weather and heading out into the dark, simple as any other errand. Tyler swings his legs to the ground, and he’s half-convinced himself he should, that tonight he _will_ –

But how long before Tanner hates him?

Tyler lets his head fall back against the headboard. What would be the point? Tyler’s already dragged him enough places he doesn’t want to be.

A sick, sour feeling twists through his stomach. A sharp curl of guilt. His eyes aren’t even close to closing. Maybe he can’t go after Tanner, but he can’t stay here, either.

He dresses quickly, and steps out into the night still doing up his coat. The cold bites at his skin. The door clicks shut behind him, and Tyler hesitates. The snow has stopped, leaving the night clear, and so cold the air feels like it’s burning his face.

Hopefully, wherever he is, Tanner is at least inside.

Tyler laughs, one sharp, bitter burst, and his breath puffs out visible in front of him. He’s worrying about Tanner, while Tanner’s probably not giving one, single thought to him. Tyler shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets. It’s so cold, it hurts to breathe. He can’t stay out here, and he looks in the direction of the main buildings. The dining hall will be closed up and dark this time of night. And the main lodge will be quiet and still, but – but if it’s open, the library is always quiet and still. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

Tyler sets out, deliberate now that he has a destination in mind.

The front door of the lodge is unlocked. Maybe this is some sort of gesture of trust on the Richards’ part. More likely, Tyler thinks, they’re just used to thinking about the Lake as a place where they know everyone. More refusal to acknowledge that the community has outgrown what this place was intended for.

Tyler rolls his eyes. Or maybe it’s just an admission that they don’t have anything worth stealing.

He walks past the front desk, trying to imagine this place like it must have been Before – as some sort of lakeside resort. A place to get away from the city and go hunting or fishing. And it is still. Sort of. Even if no one’s taking vacations anymore. He passes the door to the private suite – where the innkeeper must once have lived and which the Richards’ have taken over. He pauses to study the inlaid panels of frosted glass and the old brass knocker all covered in carving. If Tyler is of the privileged class, then the Richards are just as much gentry as he is. Just country wealth instead of city.

That, and they came out on the winning side.

Tyler moves on, passing the offices, and walking silently as he can through the unlit halls. The building is still all around him, no one else stirring.

As he approaches the library, he slows. A dim light is visible, coming from the library’s open doorway.

Tyler hesitates, then peers inside. The light in the main room of the library is off, but the door at the far end of the room – the one that has always, always been closed, is open.

The light is coming from in there.

From the door to the hallway, Tyler studies the room beyond. He can see that it’s small, just barely big enough to hold a desk and two simple chairs. Crowded onto the desk’s surface, is a computer, and piles and piles of paper. There’s a man sitting at the desk, typing. His eyes are on the computer screen, and it gives his face a bluish cast. His face is gaunt, and the combination makes him look almost ghostly.

Tyler watches him. The man’s typing is slow and methodical, one finger of each hand hunting over the keyboard and pecking at the keys.

Tyler edges into the library proper. He reaches down and switches on one of the desk lamps in the main room.

Jeff Carter’s eyes flick up. He stares at Tyler. Tyler recognizes him. His face isn’t so different from the man Tyler had watched on TV, and his eyes are exactly the same.

Carter doesn’t say anything to him, and Tyler keeps quiet. After a moment, Carter looks back down at the screen in front of him. The sound of his slow typing resumes.

Tyler goes to the shelves, but more to take shelter among them than to look for anything specific. His heart is racing in his chest, and he doesn’t know if it’s because there’s someone else here, or because that person is Jeff Carter, or because Jeff Carter had looked at him, had stared right at him – _Jeff Carter –_

Tyler blows out a long breath. He goes to the section where the manuals are kept. He pulls one down at random, not even bothering to read the spine, and carries it to the reading table with numb fingers.

He opens the book, paging through until he finds the diagrams – a quick way to learn what various parts look like. The drawing are clear enough, but the words on the page remain unread. Again and again, his eyes drift from the page, and, as intently and carefully as he can, he watches Jeff Carter.

Carter is too tall for the chair he’s in, and has to hunch over the keyboard. Bent and frowning at the monitor, he doesn’t look particularly terrifying. He doesn’t look like a murderer. Or a Stanley Cup winner. Or a war hero.

But then again, what would it mean to look like those things? What does it mean to look like a murderer? Or a Stanley Cup winner? Or a war hero?

And what does it look like to be a man who could be in love with Mike Richards?

Carter doesn’t say anything to him. And he doesn’t look at Tyler again. After nearly an hour of typing, he just stops. The printer in the corner of the room comes to life. Carter stands and collects the pages. He thumbs through them, then walks past Tyler, and tacks them up outside the door.

 

 

Day after day, Tyler slogs through the snow to work. The weeks fade into each other, until he realizes with a start that he’s been at the Lake over two months. Closer to three. Long enough for him to learn how to keep engines running in the cold, what a whole assortment of Buster’s grunts mean, and even how to make Alex crack a smile. He works long enough that the smell of grease becomes a comfort, and hard enough that he can finally walk the motorcycle out into the yard, and get the engine to cough into life.

The first time it had actually run, Tyler had sat outside in the cold, listening to that loud, unsteady chug and watching exhaust spill out and rise up into the blue sky. The whole rest of the world had fallen silent under the roar, and he’d stayed out there long enough that Buster had eventually come out and yelled, _You’re going to flood that thing_ , and – _what do you think, we’re made out of gasoline up here?_ A broad grin on his face the whole time.

At night, Tyler goes to the library. He either comes home after work just long enough to move past Tanner without a word, as they both avoid each other’s eyes, or just doesn’t go home in the evening at all. It’s easier. Easier than asking questions Tanner won’t answer. And easier than staring at a dark ceiling, wondering if this is the night Tanner won’t come home at all.

He’s become a fixture in the library. Every night, Carter is there, too, always keeping the same late hours, and always typing away with the same slow, methodical rhythm. The first few nights, Carter had frowned at him from across the room, his eyes narrowed on Tyler’s face. But Tyler didn’t say anything, and never approached the door to Carter’s small office, and so Carter never said anything to him.

Now, when Tyler enters, Carter glances at him and then looks away almost immediately, as though Tyler’s presence has ceased to surprise him, and Tyler himself is no more worthy of attention than the dusty books, or the tables, or the lamps. His eyes and his focus drawn instantly back to the screen in front of him.

Carter is working on The List. Tyler figured that much out almost immediately. And that’s why he works with such methodical dedication. Because every night he could be finding out and listing the fate of a person who someone is desperately searching for.

Tyler, in contrast, is working his way through the library’s collection of manuals. Tyler was surprised by the extent of the library’s collection at first, but the contents of the library seem to consist of texts found and salvaged from the outside world. And maybe manuals weren’t subject to the same sorts of purges the Union put fiction and historical texts through, which explains why they’re so abundant.

Boxes of new books show up in sporadic bursts – nothing for days, and then suddenly one whole wall of the Library will be hidden by as-yet-unsorted stacks. Some nights, when Tyler’s eyes won’t focus on the page anymore, he begins the sorting and shelving process himself, making up his own system as he goes. He doesn’t know where they come from, or who brings them in, but if anyone is in charge of organizing them, they don’t seem very dedicated to the task.

Maybe Carter collects them himself. Although, if he does, he can’t be traveling too far do it, because every night he’s back in the library, typing up his list. One laborious keystroke at a time.

Tyler is right there with him, just feet away, but utterly separate. Both of them spending the dark, still hours of the night, if not side-by-side, then close. And both of them, Tyler thinks, utterly alone. Although Tyler watches him, with quick, sidelong glances. He wonders what Carter thinks about while he’s working. He wonders when Carter sleeps, and when he does, if he dreams about all those names he spends so much time entering. Maybe doesn’t sleep at all: the weight of everyone’s hopes for what he’ll find keeping him awake.

Tyler looks back down at the page in front of him. He’s read the last sentence to himself at least three times. The diagram blurs in front of his eyes.

He can, actually, apply some of this in the garage. And if the ideas Tyler comes up with aren’t exactly standard, they do sometimes work. Buster has started cutting Tyler’s attempts at explanation short, waving a hand and saying, “Try it. Tell me if you blow something up.” Alex watches him with slightly sharper skepticism, but a couple of times, when something worked, she’d asked him how he did it. And her gaze as she watched his hands as he explained was just as attentive as it was skeptical before.

But Tyler still can’t shake the feeling that he’s just passing time. That he’s supposed to be doing something bigger than sitting out in these wintry woods and waiting. Because somewhere out there, Wayne is out there doing _something._ Dean and Tyler’s parents are out there. Even Mike Richards, slipping in and out of the Lake, to and from wherever he goes, with increasingly dark circles under his eyes and a tight-lipped expression – he’s doing something. Something big.

But Tyler is stuck here. He taps his finger against the page. He looks up again at Carter. Carter doesn’t seem to go anywhere either, but at least he’s found a way to do something. He’s making his time here count, however slow his progress might be.

And his progress is _so slow._ Every night, Tyler has to listen to Carter’s fingers tap out the same cadence on the keyboard. Click. Pause. Click. Pause. Click.

Tyler tries to focus on the page in front of him, but it doesn’t _matter._ Not really. Not like what Carter is working on. Tyler clears his throat. “I can help you.”

The sound of Carter typing stops.

Carter look at him over the top of the monitor. The lower half of his face is hidden, but his eyes are visible, and his gaze is sharp.

Tyler takes a deep breath and approaches the office door.

Carter frowns as he approaches, and Tyler stops in the doorway. “I can type. I know how to type. If you let me help, it’ll go faster.”

The frown remains, and for one, long moment, Tyler thinks Carter might not respond at all. Then Carter’s eyes narrow even further. “You know what I’m working on?”

“You’re working on the List.” Tyler swallows, heart all the sudden up in his throat, and he has to focus to make his voice sound steady. “Let me help you. It’ll make it go faster.”

Carter’s frown feels like it’s burning Tyler’s face. “If you know what it is,” he says slowly, “then you know getting it done fast isn’t the most important thing. It has to be perfect. There can’t be any mistakes.”

Tyler hadn’t thought of it like that, but all at once, he’s on the verge of begging. The need to do this has settled like a weight in his stomach. It’s important. Tyler can feel how important it is. “Then I can help with that, too. Two sets of eyes. Fewer mistakes. And – ‘there’s no delight in doing anything unshared’, and all that. Right?” He pauses, hands twisting. “Please?”

The silence stretches. Then, Carter gets up. For a moment, Tyler thinks he’s about to close the door in Tyler’s face, but instead Carter grabs the chair from the other side of the desk, and drags it around the desk, next to the place he was sitting. The legs make a long, metal scraping sound on the floor.

Carter holds out his hand, a silent invitation for Tyler to sit.

Tyler hesitates.

Carter lifts an eyebrow. “You gonna help or not?”

Tyler swallows and steps into the room.

“Jeff Carter,” Jeff Carter says. He holds out his hand.

Tyler takes it. His grip is cool and firm. “Tyler Toffoli.”

He waits for Carter to react, but Carter just studies his face, coolly neutral. He sits in the chair next to Tyler. “Owning.”

Tyler blinks at him.

“The Seneca proverb you just mentioned? The quote is, there’s no delight in _owning_ anything unshared.” Carter pauses. “An especially interesting thought from someone who was exiled for adultery.”

“Oh.” Tyler doesn’t know what to say.

Carter taps the monitor. “Anyway. The List is supposed to help people who are looking for their friends or family. People that are missing, or that the Union disappeared.” He speaks slowly, as if it’s taking him a long time to gather his thoughts.

Tyler nods, impatient. “I know.”

Carter pauses to look at him, sharp. “Well, the Union has records of where all those people are.”

This, Tyler didn’t know. And Carter smiles just the tiniest bit when Tyler falls silent. Then the expression turns sarcastic. “Tons and tons of records. Where they ended up. What happened to them. Who sent them there.” He pauses. “The problem is that the records we have access to are on paper.”

Those binders. All those shelves in the other room full of binders. Carter thumbs through the pile of documents sitting on the desk. The stack is thicker than the span of Tyler’s hand, all covered with tiny type. “Some of them are readable, but most of them are encrypted. And even the records that are readable aren’t organized. They’re not searchable. If we had access to the database, it’d be searchable, but as it is?” He shakes his head. “So I go through them. Put the pieces together, decode the bits I can, and put them in an order so people can find who they’re looking for.”

Tyler brushes his fingers across the stack, ruffling the edges doubtfully. “All of this – these are all names?”

Jeff chuckles. His laugh has a rusty, unused sound. “Not all of it. The Union kept records of everything.” He waves a hand toward the boxes lining the walls. “All those are filled with records, too. I have to go through everything to find the usable stuff.”

Even if just a fraction of those pages had names on them – that’s got to be – tens of thousands of people. It could take years. It could take _decades_ to go through all of it. There has to be a faster way. Tyler looks from the screen to the boxes and back again. “And the database is – down?”

Jeff shakes his head. “No, that’s the problem. The database is all right here.” He taps the computer again. “But it’s encrypted. We don’t have access to the key. So we go the slow way.” He holds one of his hands out for Tyler to see. The third and fourth fingers on his left hand are curled tight to his palm. Frozen in place. “The very slow way.”

Tyler stares long enough that Jeff coughs, and Tyler tears his gaze from Carter’s hand.

Carter gives him a wan smile.

Tyler nods, unsure of what to say. He positions his fingers over the keys. He looks from the names on the page to the word processor window Jeff was working on just a moment ago, and back again.

The information on the page is arranged in columns:

`JOHNSON, CHRISTOPER      091809  XX`  
`GARCIA, JOSEPH         091809  XX`  
`WILLIAMS, PAUL     091809  T3`  
`LOPEZ, MARIA      091809  XX`  
`MOORE, PATRICIA     091809  XX`  
`MARTIN, JENNIFER     091809 AA`

“What – ”

Carter taps the page. “This is the name.” His fingertip slides over. “This is the date. This particular document is sorted by date. Some of them are sorted by name. Some of them aren’t sorted by anything, as far as I can tell.” He shakes his head. “And this,” he taps the last entry on each line. “This is a code they used. AA is arrested. Anything with a T is transferred, and the number will tell you the facility number of where they were sent.”

Tyler studies the page, and then looks up at Carter’s face. “What do the Xs mean?”

There’s a beat before he answers. “They mean executed.”

There are a lot of Xs on the screen.

“Most of what I do,” Carter says slowly, “is give people bad news.”

This is what he does, every night, Tyler thinks. And this is what Tyler is going to do. Collate lists of the names of the dead.

 

 

He and Jeff work together every night that week, falling into a quiet rhythm. Tyler’s body adjusts to the late nights, and his eyes adjust to staring at a computer screen for hours. They work almost entirely in silence, a precedent Jeff set on the first evening, and Tyler followed – meaning it took Tyler almost a full week of working together before he stumbled his way through the question of what exactly he should call Jeff Carter.

Jeff Carter – who Tyler had watched on TV with the fierce sort of worship that makes Tyler blush now, even though Jeff can’t hear his thoughts.

Jeff had let him flounder for long, anxious moments before taking pity, giving Tyler a small, wry grin, and saying, “Jeff is fine.”

And it takes another full week after that for Tyler to work up the nerve to start asking questions.

Tyler links his fingers together and stretches his arms above his head, yawning. His back crackles. The only illumination comes from the desk lamp, the glow of the computer screen, and whatever light leaks in from the library’s outer room. Outside, it’s dark enough that Tyler can’t see anything at all, just the reflection of the office. He rubs his eyes. “Why don’t you do this during the day?”

Jeff is sitting on the floor nearby, surrounded by carefully arranged stacks of paper. He answers without looking up. “There are too many people around. I get interrupted. Can’t get anything done.” He pauses, frowning at the page he’s holding. “Besides, during the day I have other stuff to do. I have to help Irene.” His voice drops to a mutter. “ _Somebody_ has to. Since _somebody else_ is never around to do anything.”

When he’s grumbling, he sounds just like Richards, although Tyler refrains from telling him that. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

Jeff shrugs. “I don’t need much sleep.”

Tyler’s hands freeze for just a second, hovering over the keyboard. He can hear Tanner’s voice in his head, saying almost those exact words. He thinks about how Tanner does sleep now, although at odd hours, hiding from the sun.

Jeff notices the pause in typing noise, and looks up him. “What?”

Tyler looks out the window. Tanner’s out there, somewhere. Tyler shakes himself. They have work to do. “Nothing.”

Jeff raises an eyebrow, but he straightens a handful of pages into a stack, standing to drop them on the desk for Tyler. “These next.”

This forms the basis of their rhythm: Tyler types the names. Jeff keeps pages in front of him, and spends the rest of his time digging through boxes and prioritizing what they’ll work on next.

Jeff pulls a couple new boxes down, then resettles back on the floor, pulling several stacks into a close semi-circle around him. His shirt is smeared with dust, long legs sprawled in front of him.

Tyler turns back to his typing, glancing down every so often at Jeff, who is scanning the pages in front of him. At periodic intervals, he checks a yellow legal pad he keeps by his side, covered in his own scrawled handwriting. When he first started, Tyler had assumed the order with which Jeff chose to work through the stacks of paper was random. But it’s clearly not. Tyler steals another look towards the legal pad. “If all these names are in a random order, how come you’re picking certain boxes?”

Jeff has a pencil tucked behind his ear, and he’s elbow-deep in one of said boxes. “I know where they come from. Where we got them from.” He looks up long enough to point at the stacks closest to him. “Toronto. Toronto. Toronto – we’ve got lots of stuff from Toronto right now because of Mike.”

“That’s where Mike is right now?”

“Yeah.” Jeff doesn’t exactly sound happy about it. “But,” he starts pointing again, “that one’s Philadelphia. Boston. LA.”

“Oh.” Some of the boxes do look like they’ve traveled long and hard to get here. “How’d they get here?”

Jeff sighs, pausing his sorting. “People bring them in.” His voice drops to a mutter again, “Word gets out what you’re doing, and all the sudden you’re drowning in paper.”

“How do people find out about it?”

Jeff snorts. “Trust me, people think you’re gonna find someone they care about, they talk about it. Word gets around.”

That makes sense. The first thing Tyler wanted to know when he got here, is if anyone knew where his parents were. “Well then how do you – ”

Jeff sighs again. Stops working again.

“Sorry.” Tyler turns back to the monitor. “I’ll stop asking questions.”

Jeff watches him for a moment, then shrugs, returns to frowning at the papers in front of him.

Tyler chews his lip. The glow of the screen is making his head ache. “It’s just that – if information is coming in from all over, then how do you pick what we work on next?”

Jeff’s eyes don’t lift from the page. “We have –” He trails off for a moment; his attention is somewhere far away. “In addition to the main list, we have other lists of specific people we’re looking for information on. And I’m trying – ” More papers get shuffled. Something gets marked down on the legal pad. “ – trying to keep track of all of our lists of people.”

Buried to his neck in paper, and he’s making more of it. “You’re making a list of lists?” Tyler risks a grin. “Sounds complicated.”

Jeff finally glances back up. He rolls his eyes, but his mouth is curved in a smile. “Not really.”

“What kind of lists?”

“Well.” Jeff’s gone back to paging through his piles. “Children. Doctors. Engineers. People with other special skills – ” He trails off, squinting at a page covered with blurred type for a moment before continuing. “People considered dangerous. Most wanted types. War – ” He cuts off, all at once.

Tyler glances down, and Jeff’s hands have stilled. His voice is now carefully casual. “Just all kinds of lists.”

Tyler frowns, studying him. Jeff is still motionless, but he’s not looking up. He’s not looking at Tyler. Tyler thinks maybe it’s something he’s just read, but he doesn’t seem to be looking at the page in his hands, either. Tyler turns in the chair to face him, a small beat of alarm going in his thought. He leans down; Jeff’s legal pad is near his feet, almost within reach. “Do you want help with that part, too?”

“No.” Jeff pulls the pad away abruptly, moving it to his other side. “No, no. You type. I’ll handle this part.”

Tyler’s sense of wariness is growing, and he can feel his heart rate start to tick up. Jeff’s not meeting his eyes, and one of his hands rests firmly on top of the legal pad, like he’s afraid Tyler might try to grab it. Like he’s afraid Tyler might see.

Tyler’s breath catches in his throat. He straightens in the desk chair. “When I first got here,” he starts carefully. “I put my parents’ names on the list of people to look for.”

Jeff won’t look at him. “I know.”

The pieces fall into place. All at once, Tyler gets what Jeff was going to say, before he caught himself. Before he stopped speaking. Jeff is looking for information on most wanted types. Jeff is making a list of war criminals.

Tyler leans back. The chair creaks underneath him. He folds his hands in his lap. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. “Were my parents already on another list?”

Jeff doesn’t answer.

“Is someone else looking for them?”

Jeff looks down at the papers he’s holding. His fingers smooth and re-smooth a dog-eared corner. His mouth twists. “Tyler.” His voice is so careful, like someone who knows what he’s going to say is awkward. Like someone trying to figure out how to deliver bad news, and then Tyler _knows._

The muscles of Tyler’s jaw go tight. “Right.” He pins his eyes back on the screen. “I get it.” He places his fingers again, and the return of the sound of his typing seems very loud after the silence.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jeff shifting. He can see that the legal pad hasn’t moved. The boxes and the papers in front of Jeff remain untouched.

Jeff says, “No one – no one holds you accountable for what he did.”

Tyler snorts. Jeff ought to ask Mike Richards if he believes that. No one here understands – no one here knows anything about Tyler’s dad. They don’t know that he wouldn’t have done those things unless he had to. They don’t know how hard he tried to make up for them. Or that he had worked so hard to keep his family safe. Tyler’s eyes are burning, and the screen starts to blur in front of him, but he refuses to give in to the urge.

“They don’t.” Jeff pauses. “Or if they do, they shouldn’t.”

Tyler swallows around the lump in his throat.

Jeff’s voice is thick. “I know what it’s like when – ” He blows out a long breath. “That sometimes it’s not what’s done to you, but what you do that leaves the worst scars.”

These last few weeks, he’s been Jeff who digs through papers. Jeff who works with him on this list. Jeff who complains about the cold and looks irritated when they get interrupted. But right now, Tyler sees Jeff Carter who killed a man in the Western Conference Final. Jeff Carter who was part of a team that kicked off a revolution. Tyler can feel his lip trembling. He blinks back tears.

Jeff lowers his eyes. “If I find anything about your parents, you’ll be the first to know.”

Tyler swallows hard. They’re not friends. They’re not, even if Jeff sounds like he’s actually sorry, if there’s something real, low and aching, in his voice. Maybe Jeff’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s more worried about Tyler tipping off his parents that people are looking for them. Tyler nods without looking at him, throat too tight to answer.

The sound of approaching cars interrupts them. The engines of several vehicles growling through the dark. In a moment, headlights sweep over the lodge.

Jeff looks towards the window, frowning. “They’re back early,” he says. He doesn’t say who, but there’s really only one answer.

Tyler listens to the vehicles roll to a stop, tires crunching the snow. Their engines are cut, followed by the sound of doors slamming. He hears calling voices, and then the thud of footsteps moving toward the lodge, towards them. Jeff tracks the sounds with his eyes.

Mike Richards appears in the doorway to the library, a light snow still clinging to his coat. He crosses the outer room, pulling off his scarf and gloves as he walks. He hesitates a beat at the inner door, face registering irritation when he sees Tyler. Then he regains his momentum and continues toward Jeff, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Burning the midnight oil?”

Jeff looks up at him, a face that lets on no excitement, except a small smile curving the edge of his mouth. “Like always. How was Toronto?”

“Miserable. Like always.” Mike makes a face. “Everybody wants to talk and nobody wants to get anything done.”

“You’re back sooner than I thought you’d be.”

“Yeah, well.” Richards throws a half-second glance at Tyler before he looks back to Jeff, as if to indicate there’s more say, but he won’t in front of Tyler.

Tyler glowers down at the desk.

Richards does reach for Jeff, though. And Tyler watches him squeeze Jeff’s shoulder.

Tyler clears his throat. “I should go. We’re done for tonight, right?”

Jeff looks torn, but only for a second. “See you tomorrow?”

Tyler lowers his eyes. “Same as always.”

 

 

He eats dinner these days with Alex and Sam. The days are already short, and tonight work at the garage had run late. Tyler sets his tray down, sets the additional food he grabbed down next to it, and begins to shovel his dinner into his mouth as quickly as possible.

Sam frowns at him skeptically. “You in a rush to go somewhere?”

“Yeah.” Alex makes an expression of mild disgusted. “You don’t like our table manners or something?”

Tyler freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. He is bolting his food faster than is strictly polite. “No, I’ve just been working with Jeff at night, you know? And I gotta run this – ” He gestures at food he packed to-go, “back to cabin and then I gotta come back here, and I just – sorry. I’ve got a lot going on.”

Sam’s eyebrows are still drawn together in a frown. Although he doesn’t say anything, Tyler still gets the message. Tyler takes a breath. “Okay, okay. You’re right.” He sets his fork down and takes a breath. He asks Alex, “How did your band’s show-thing go?”

Sam looks at her. “See, I told you he could be civilized.”

Alex looks amused. “It went good. Deirdre still can’t keep a beat to save her life, but what are you going to do?”

“Get a new – drummer?” Tyler guesses.

“Bassist. You find me one, I’ll hire them.”

“Do I get a commission?”

“Sure,” she says, laughing. “A full ten percent of nothing.”

Tyler grins.

Alex smiles back at him, but her eyes drift to the pile of food next to his tray: dried fruit, a sandwich, a packet of crackers, which will hopefully keep.

Tyler follows her gaze, and his smile falters. “It’s just – ” It’s just that Tanner won’t come to meals anymore. All three of them know it, but it still feels awkward to say.

Alex waits a beat, then her mouth curves again, but the smile looks tired, and her face looks drawn. “You go on,” she says. “I’ll fill you in on everything that happened at the show tomorrow.”

When Tyler makes it back to their room, Tanner is facing away from the door. He doesn’t say anything when Tyler comes in. But that’s not unusual – he doesn’t seem to have much to say to Tyler, these days. He hardly looks at Tyler. He doesn’t seem to want Tyler to look at him.

Tyler sets the food down on the dresser. “Brought you something to eat.”

Tanner does look up at that. His eyes are bloodshot and bleary.

Tyler looks away. He strips out of his grease-stained sweatshirt and pulls on something cleaner. He grabs his coat and gloves, and key – because the odds are good Tanner won’t be here when he gets back later tonight.

Tyler glances around the room to make sure he isn’t forgetting anything, and he’s surprised to find Tanner’s eyes still on him.

Tanner says, “You’re not around much anymore.”

The words fall into the quiet gulf between them. Tyler wants to grab him. To hold him. To shake him. He wants to yell and demand answers, and he wants to crawl back in the bed beside Tanner, and never leave his side. A stone is forming in his throat. “Neither are you.”

Tanner nods, then drops his head again, turning away. And Tyler lets himself out into the night.

 

 

The next morning comes early. Even inside the cabin, the air feels frigid. But Tyler eases himself out of Tanner’s grasp and hurries through breakfast, because he fixed the pistons yesterday, and he wants to see how it’s going to run.

Any day he gets to run the bike is a good day.

Tyler walks his motorcycle outside, back behind the garage. The wind coming off the lake has blown this side of the yard clear of snow, but the bite in the air is enough to make him wish he remembered his gloves.

Under his hands, the engine roars to life. And for a moment, there’s nothing else in the world. There’s just the cold air, and the heat coming off the bike, and throbbing noise of the engine filling his ears, so loud the sound feels like pressure.

The roar helps shake off Tyler’s unsettled feelings. Richards’ sudden arrival back at the lake had been followed by another just as abrupt departure. With no information shared, of course. Not that Tyler expects him to, but somewhere out there, it feels like things are speeding up. Whereas stuck here, Tyler is standing still.

And the cold air is good to numb the parts of him that are doing worse than standing still, the parts of his life that are crumbling. Tyler turns his face into the last rays of a brilliant winter sun and concentrates on the thrum of the motor and dream of movement.

It takes him a minute to notice Buster waving at him from the backdoor of the garage. He cups his hands to his mouth. “Sounding better!” He offers Tyler a thumbs up.

Tyler grins back. Then, as if the bike is trying to prove him wrong, the engine starts up a stuttering cough. “Okay, well,” Tyler yells. “Not all the way better.” He hits the kill switch, and the noise dies.

But: solid progress. Tyler rubs his hands together, half in satisfaction, and half to try to get the feeling back

Buster crunches across the gravel toward him. “You’ve been putting in a lot of hours on that thing.” He rests a hand on Tyler’s shoulder.

It’s hard not to feel a glow of pride. Tyler lets himself bask for a moment. All Buster cares about is that Tyler’s getting better at fixing engines. He cares that Tyler shows up and works hard.

Even way out in the yard, he can hear the music Alex is blasting inside the garage. The sun is edging low, sending up streaks of pink and orange. Buster’s hand is warm on his shoulder, and the knot in Tyler’s chest loosens, just a little.

“But that wind is murder.” Buster gives him a shake. “Come on, let’s go in. I’m too old to be out here.”

Tyler laughs. “You’re not old.”

“No? No, you’re right,” Buster decides. “Just well-aged.” He sounds pleased.

Tyler follows him back in with the bike, and begins the process of covering it. “It still sounds rough, though.”

Buster makes a considering noise. “Why do you think that is?”

Tyler glares at him. It’s clear from his tone, he already knows what’s wrong with the bike. “Come on. Just tell me.”

Buster shakes his head. “What are you gonna do when you’re riding out, all alone and the bike breaks down? I’m not gonna be there to tell you what’s wrong with it.”

“I’ve never even taken it out of the yard – ”

“Even still.” Buster crosses his arms over his chest.

Tyler gives in. “Fine.” He considers. “It’s kind of a pinging noise, like the pistons made, but I replaced the pistons.” Not the pistons. “It’s there when I start the bike up, not just at a higher RPM.” Not the rings or the pins.

Buster nods. “How did the bike start up?”

“Easy.”

Buster makes an unspooling gesture with his hand.

The ease with which the bike starts has to do with – “The fuel mix?” Tyler asks. “It’s running too rich?”

Buster grins. “Engines will run different in the cold. And at altitude. Something you’ll have to keep an eye on.”

Tyler sighs. “There’s always something.” Sometimes it feels like he’ll never be done.

“Come on now, that’s an easy fix. And god didn’t create metal so that man could make paper clips. I never said it was going to be easy.” He looks at Tyler again, still smiling. “But I’ll bet you’ll have it running by spring.”

Spring seems very far away. “No reason to hurry, anyway. I don’t know how to drive the thing.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I mean, maybe. I’ve never even driven a car, though.”

“Eh.” Buster crosses his arms over his chest. “All the less to un-learn then. You’re gonna pick up counter-steering like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Now, come on, I need a hand with a fuel pump and Alex is busy polishing every last inch of the truck of hers – ”

Tyler laughs. “Sure.” But when he looks up, Irene Richards is standing in the garage doorway. The sound of her knock was probably masked by the music. She waves at them.

Tyler nudges Buster’s arm and points.

Buster looks up. He smiles when he recognizes who it is, stands straighter.

Tyler moves to kill the music, watching as Buster runs a hand to smooth down his non-existent hair. “Hey, lady. You never come and see me anymore, how have you been?”

She looks amused at his flirting. “Just fine. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

Buster complains constantly. Tyler snorts.

Buster ignores him. “Any news out of Toronto?”

That’s all anyone wants to know about, these days. Rumors of a ceasefire are everywhere. Everyone is waiting for news.

Irene shakes her head. “Nothing definite, although we’re expecting Mike to get summoned back there any day now.”

Tyler frowns. He thought Richards was in Toronto right now.

Buster gives a thoughtful nod. “Well. What can I do for you? One of your trucks down?”

She smiles, just a hint of strain around her mouth. “Actually, I’m here to talk to Tyler.”

Tyler freezes. They found his parents. Or Dean’s here. Or Dean’s coming here. Or –

“Do you have a moment, Tyler?” Her tone makes it clear the conversation is going to happen, whether Tyler has a moment to give or not.

He was holding a gauge, but he sets it down, wiping his hands carefully to stall for time. Working to keep his voice even, he says, “Sure.”

Irene looks at Buster. “Is it alright if we use your office?”

Buster looks surprised, his eyebrows go up, but he nods. “Of course.”

Tyler holds the door for her. Irene settles in one of the beat-up chairs that crowd the office.

Tyler pulls the door shut behind them, and by the time it’s closed, his heart has started racing in his chest. He turns, standing with his back resting against the door.

Irene clears her throat. “I visited the greenhouses today, to check in with the greenhouse team.”

Tyler remains motionless. The greenhouses are not what he was expecting to hear about in this discussion. “Okay?”

“This is a busy time of year for them, you know. They’re our only source of fresh produce in the winter.” She pauses. She looks at him. “They said they’ve been having a hard time getting Tanner to show up for his shifts.”

It should be a surprise. According to Tanner, he goes to work every day. On the occasions he’s around, he complains about the toll it takes. The soreness of his back.

But down in the pit of his stomach, Tyler’s not surprised at all.

Tyler keeps his face blank, but he can feel himself flushing. “He’s been sick.” He meets her eyes. “He said he felt sick this morning.”

Her eyes study his face. Tyler refuses to look away, but he can feel the blood hot in his cheeks. “Actually,” she continues, “according to his team leader, he hasn’t shown up at all for the last two weeks.” She pauses, waiting for his reaction, but Tyler won’t give her one. “So I stopped by your room. But no one answered the door.”

She stares, quietly, intently, right into Tyler’s eyes. “Naturally, I wanted to ask you if everything’s alright.”

Tyler shifts, foot to foot. His hands want to ball into fists. He shoves them into his pockets instead. “Everything’s fine. Like I said, he’s just been under the weather. He was probably asleep.”

Her gaze is steady on his face, her voice implacable. “Tyler, the way this community works, is by everyone contributing. That’s the only way we can sustain something like this.”

“He just been sick,” Tyler repeats, but even to himself, his voice sounds too high. Forced and thin.

Her mouth tightens. “If he’s sick, we have doctors.”

Tyler shakes his head. “He just needs time – ”

“There are resources here he could – ”

“This isn’t any of your business,” Tyler snaps. He’s not a child to be scolded, and neither is Tanner.

“The Lake and its running,” Irene’s voice is ice-cold, “is very much my business.”

His face feels like it’s burning. And if she doesn’t give a fuck about them, if she’s just worried about their hours of labor, then Tyler can deal with that, too. “I work here all day.” Tyler grinds out, gesturing toward the garage behind him. “And at night, I work with Jeff. That’s two shifts worth of work everyday. That ought to be enough for both of us.” Let her argue with that.

Her eyes are dark. The line of her mouth doesn’t ease. She rises. “Just let him know I dropped by. If you see him?”

 

 

Tyler goes straight back to their room after his shift, but Tanner isn’t there.

Tyler’s pissed.

He’s pissed at himself, for lying to Irene. Pissed at Tanner for making him lie. Pissed at Tanner twice over for not even being here for Tyler to be mad at.

 _Two fucking weeks_. He makes a circuit of the room, as if Tanner might magically appear in some corner.

Jeff will be expecting him soon, but Tyler doesn’t think he can sit still. He can’t focus. And isn’t it just _perfect_ that he’s too angry to go do the job that he just used as an excuse for why Tanner shouldn’t have to do his, and Tanner’s not even _here –_

Tyler grinds his jaw.

Tanner’s not here, but Tyler’s going to find him.

He starts by searching the places someone might go to be alone. There aren’t a lot of options; the Lake isn’t that big, and it’s crowded. It’s snowing again, and his feet leave fresh tracks walking through the garden, the pier overlooking the lake, the trails that run along the edge of the woods. But there’s no sign of Tanner – no sign of anyone, probably because everyone sane is holed up somewhere warm.

It’s evening by the time he’s swept all the trails. He stops to consider his options. The lodge and the dining hall are off in one direction, but Tyler spends most of his time over there, and he’s never run across Tanner.

In the other direction – in the other direction, is the rotunda. And from it, Tyler can hear the faint sounds of music.

Tanner wouldn’t be there, would he? He wouldn’t spend every second avoiding people just to end up there? But Tyler doesn’t know where else to look. At the very least, maybe someone will have seen him.

He turns and walks towards the music. He lets himself in the front door. The air is warm, filled with the heat of bodies and the babble of a dozen conversations.

_“They’re gonna hand over Toronto, any day now. You just wait – ”_

_“Bullshit. What I heard is – ”_

_“Mike just wants to run things – ”_

_“No one wants to run things, that’s the problem – ”_

Looking for familiar faces, Tyler spots Alex just before she spots him.

Alex is smiling, her face flushed. She blinks in surprise at seeing him, and the smile on her face turns abruptly into a frown. “Are you okay, you look – ” She doesn’t finish; her voice trails off.

Tyler doesn’t care what he looks like. He says, “I’m looking for Tanner.”

Her mouth opens and closes, concern still clear on her face.

“Do you know where he is?”

She stares at him, like she’s surprised he doesn’t know. “He’s out back,” she says. “Down by the water mill.” She reaches out, and puts a hand on his sleeve. “Tyler – ”

But Tyler’s already moving away, cutting through the crowd towards the door.

Tyler goes out the back, into the cold night. Behind the rotunda, a set of narrow stone steps lead down to the river. On the bank is an old grist mill, probably once used for grinding flour, although it must have been out of commission for almost a century now. Only the stone shell is left.

It doesn’t look like anyone’s inside. It doesn’t even look habitable. But Tyler edges his way down the steps. The sound of the rushing water fills the air around him. He moves as quick as he dares on the slippery stone. The steps are doused by a fine mist of spray from the river, now frozen in places into slick, black ice. The air feels damp and heavy, and looking down, Tyler can see over the steep edge of the bank, can look down into the dark water rushing past, invisible in the dark, but roaring its presence.

He moves steadily downward, toward the mill. And then, over the sound of the water, he hears voices ahead of him.

Whatever door the mill may once have had, has long since rotted away. Tyler turns the corner and the first thing he sees, is Tanner. Tanner is in there. Standing there, and seemingly, perfectly fine.

Tyler stops. Somehow in the back of his mind, he still thought Tanner wasn’t coming home because he couldn’t. In his mind, Tyler thought he would find him trapped, or hiding, or crying. He definitely thought he would find him alone – but here he is, whole and alive and upright, standing around in this freezing shell of a water mill, with two men Tyler doesn’t recognize.

They’re not even doing anything, just standing slouched against the wall, zippers of their jackets drawn up, and caps pulled low against the cold and damp.

Tanner looks shocked. Like it’s impossible for Tyler to be here. Or like Tyler is a ghost. He straightens, coming off the wall so fast he nearly stumbles. “Tyler.”

One of the men, with a sallow face, follows Tanner’s gaze with slow eyes. “He a friend of yours?”

Tanner still looks too surprised to speak, but Tyler waits. Tyler waits to see what he’s going to say.

Tanner’s mouth works, and then he smiles, big and false. He makes his way to Tyler and lays an arm across his shoulders. “Yeah, this is – this is my buddy, Tyler. Tyler, this is Eric and Clay.” His fingers are like ice on the back of Tyler’s neck.

His _buddy_. Tyler stares at him.

Tanner’s grinning at him – like this is nothing more than a fun get-together. Like they’re all just hanging out, having a good time. Like Tanner hasn’t been sneaking away, without a word, and returning in the small hours of the morning.

Eric, who had asked the question, has dark, flat eyes that seem to track Tyler on a delay. Clay is a watery, washed-out sort of pale. A wan afterimage of a human, who doesn’t seem to be paying attention to them. Who doesn’t seem to be focused on anything at all. Tyler dislikes both of them on sight.

The sharp smell of alcohol is strong in the air. And with Tanner next to him, Tyler can smell it on his breath, can feel his body sway. Tyler pulls out of Tanner’s grasp to stare at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Aw, hey now,” Clay says, waking up enough to hold out a jar of clear fluid. “Don’t be upset. Have a drink.”

A cold feeling of disgust crawls its way down Tyler’s spine. This isn’t a one-off. This is where he’s been going. This is where Tanner’s been.

Tyler turns to stare at Clay, but Clay’s gaze is watery and unfocused. His grin is loose. He offers the jar again, waving it under Tyler’s nose. The fumes burn like paint thinner, and Tyler turns his face away. “Jesus.”

Tanner’s eyes are too bright. “I know it’s not exactly what they used to drink in the Bridle Path or Lawrence Park or – ”

Tanner’s just listing off Toronto’s nicer neighborhoods, making a joke, but Tyler’s too pissed to find it funny. “Shut up.” That’s not even where he’s from.” He knocks Clay’s hand away. “What the fuck are you doing here, Tanner?”

The smile slips off Tanner’s face.

It’s disgusting. The whole idea of him being here is disgusting. “How long have you been doing this?”

Tanner’s eyes narrow. “You wanted me to get out. You wanted me to make _friends_.” He falls back a step. “It’s not like you’re ever around, either.”

Tyler wants to shout a thousand things back at him. Wants to scream that it’s different. That Tanner left their bed in the middle of the fucking night – to do this? To be here? How was he so desperate to be away from Tyler that he ended up here? Tyler’s stomach twists. His voice comes out low, angry. “Yeah, but when I’m out, I’m _working,_ not standing around, being – _”_

Tanner glares at him. “I work.”

Tyler’s so angry, for a moment he can’t speak. He has to take a breath, then another. “I talked to Irene. She said she stopped by our room today.”

Tanner’s watching him, watching his face. “So?”

“She said no one answered the door,” Tyler continues.

“Like I said,” Tanner spits at him. “I work. I was working.”

Right to his fucking face. Tyler nods, slow, his throat tight. “She said you haven’t been showing up to your shifts at the greenhouse.” Tyler waits to see what he’s going to say to that.

Tanner’s mouth sets, muscle jumping in his jaw. “So you’re checking up on me?”

“I’m not checking up on you,” Tyler fires back. “ _She_ came to see _me_. At _work_ – which I was doing – apparently so that you can get wasted in some falling-down shack.”

Tanner’s face is furious. “Fuck you.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Tyler shakes his head. “Fine. Fuck it. I’m leaving.” Tyler is cold. Tyler is exhausted. “Stay here. Get plastered. I don’t care, I’m going to bed.”

Tyler flees the mill. He heads up the steps as fast as he dares. A freezing rain has started up, and the stone is slick underfoot. His feet skid, but he’s angry enough not to feel the cold, or the rain hitting his face.

“Tyler!” He hears Tanner call out after him. He hears running footsteps, and a second later, Tanner grabs his arm, hard enough that even through his coat it hurts.

Tanner’s eyes are blazing. “You think you get to come here and tell me what to do, just because – ”

Tyler tries to shake him loose. “I don’t tell you what to do – ”

Tanner laughs. Sharp and bitter and mirthless. “You tell me how to do everything. You know exactly how you want me to live. You have it all picked out. Go to work. Come home to you. Wait around for you. Fuck you when you want to get fucked.” He shoves Tyler’s chest, hard enough to knock him off balance. And for a second, all Tyler can hear is the river just below them, rushing past.

Tanner’s eyes blaze. “You just want me to slot into your nice, new life.” Tanner’s eyes blaze. “You want me to follow you around, wherever you go. Fucking happy and smiling. Content on whatever shelf you decide to put me – ”

“That’s bullshit,” Tyler says. And when Tanner looks away, laughing again, Tyler grabs him. Shakes him like he’s wanted to for weeks. “So I want you to be fucking happy, is that such – ”

Tanner rips out of his grasp, spinning loose, sliding. The yank catches both of them off balance, and Tanner’s foot slips on the step. He’s falling, and for one sick moment, playing out in impossible slow motion, Tyler watches him fall, and in his mind, he watches Tanner’s body hit the water and disappear into the icy, black current.

But Tanner’s fingers catch and hold. They both tumble, but just to the ground. Tyler lands hard on the stone, the breath is knocked from him. He lies, stunned, numb.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Tyler’s heart pounds loud and fast in his chest. He grabs ahold of Tanner with both hands, twisting his fingers into the stiff, wet fabric of his jacket. His breath comes out stuttering, billowing white in front of him, and his teeth chatter. He looks at Tanner, and Tanner’s eyes are wide and dark looking back. “If I tell you what to do,” Tyler has to pause to draw breath. “It’s because I care about you. I worry about you.”

Tanner closes his eyes. His face is so pale, eyelashes plastered against his cheeks.

A stone catches in Tyler’s throat. “You need sleep. You need to talk to somebody, a doctor, I don’t care who, but _somebody_. Because you’re miserable.” Tyler’s voice cracks. “And I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know what you want –”

Tanner looks at him, like something desperate and trapped. “I want to stop owing you everything – ”

Tyler’s begging now. “You don’t owe me anything. All I want – ”

Tanner shakes his head. “You say I don’t owe you, but you don’t believe that.” In the rain, it’s impossible to tell if he’s crying, but his eyes are red, his gaze vicious. “You want this made-up life where we’re happy, where we’re happy and safe and everything’s fine – but things aren’t like that. I’m not like that – ”

Tyler’s shivering all over, steeping in cold and adrenaline. His hands are shaking, his throat feels swollen shut. “We could be like that, Tanner. We could have that – ”

“You’re not listening to me,” Tanner’s voice shakes.

“I love you. We can – ”

Tanner struggles in Tyler’s grasp again, pulling away to stand again. “You don’t fucking know me.”

Tyler follows him up, foot sliding for a moment on the wet stone. Halfway up the slope, most of the lights of the rotunda are hidden from view, but there’s just enough to see Tanner’s eyes blazing. “I do know you.” Tyler grabs him again. “I _do_.”

Tanner’s eyes go wide.

Tyler pulls him close. “I know you. I know what you want. I know what you like. I know what you are – even if you wish you weren’t. I _know_ you and I love you.” Tyler shakes him. “I love you.”

Tanner’s mouth works. “Well, maybe I hate you.” But his face is cracked open, and his expression isn’t angry. It’s bright, clear panic.

Tyler says, “I know when you’re lying.”

Tanner hits him, hard. A bright burst of pain blooms in his cheek, radiates down his jaw. Tyler touches his face with numb fingers, and he feels, suddenly, starkly, perfectly awake.

Both of them stand frozen. Tanner’s hands are slightly raised, extended, like he expects Tyler to grab him again. Or maybe hit him back. And he looks he at Tyler like he’s waiting for him to do something, say something. He’s waiting for Tyler to reach out again.

Tyler turns and walks away.

 

 

Jeff stares at the mark on Tyler’s cheek for a long, long time. But he doesn’t say anything about it, and he doesn’t say anything about how late Tyler showed up tonight, just drops his gaze, and silently returns to his work.

Tyler can hear him moving in the stacks, reorganizing boxes, tugging at them and pushing them back into place with what sounds like a certain irritated force.

That stare had worried Tyler. For a moment, he’d thought Jeff might ask, and then Tyler would have to come up with something to say, and –

And he’s not sure what there is to say. He’s not sure he can say anything and still keep it together.

He blinks rapidly, trying to focus on the screen in front of him.

  
`SMITH, ADRIAN                    092109          XX`  
`BELLIS, JOANNA                    092109          XX`  
`DUPUIS, SIMONE                  092109          T1`

What they’re doing is more important than whatever personal bullshit he has going on. Which is nothing. Which isn’t anything.

Tyler swallows hard. Better not to think about it.

But his throat aches. His jaw aches. His eyes burn, and for all his blinking, the screen is growing blurry in front of him.

  
`CARLSON, CASSIDY              092109          XX`  
`BLACK, ARNE                         092109          XX`

Tyler bites down on his lip. He can’t stop thinking that after he finishes working with Jeff tonight, he has to go back to their room – which maybe isn’t even _their_ room, anymore. Because maybe there’s no them anymore. Tyler doesn’t know. Nothing seems clear, and he can feel hot tears starting to leak down the sides of his face. Tyler rubs his sleeve across his eyes. He starts breathing through his mouth, trying not to make any noise, but even these come out sounding shaky.

Focus. He needs to focus.

Tyler wipes his face again and half-successfully chokes back the sob that’s been trying to work its way free.

From behind him, Jeff drops a hand on his shoulder. “Come on.”

Tyler startles. He glances up at Jeff, and then back down.

Jeff gives him a light shake, his grip on Tyler’s shoulder tightening. “Come with me.”

Tyler follows him out of the library. He doesn’t ask where they’re going, and Jeff leads him down the back hall, through the room Tanner and Tyler sat in when they first arrived at the Lake, and into the suite of private rooms that lie behind it. He takes Tyler into a small kitchen. Once through the door, he points at the kitchen table. “Sit.” After a moment of digging through drawers, he comes up with a handkerchief.

Tyler wipes his eyes. He blows his nose.

Jeff pats him on the back. Without a word, he returns to cabinets. Tyler watches him pull out flour, salt, and shortening. These are followed by a bowl, and an assortment of measuring tools. All are haphazardly deposited on the table in front of Tyler. Jeff says, “Start with two cups of flour.”

Tyler stares at the items in front of him, distracted from his tears by the sheer novelty of it. He stares at Jeff in confusion, wondering if he’s missing something. But Jeff has turned his attention to the coffee pot. “Then add a teaspoon of salt.” He glances back and frowns at Tyler’s lack of progress. “The flour, Tyler.”

“Right.” Tyler startles into action, fumbling for just a moment before he manages to do as he’s been told.

Once Jeff gets the coffee going, he stands with his back to the counter and folds his arms across his chest. “Now add pinches of the shortening.”

Tyler’s back to staring at him. “With my hands?”

“Well, since I can never find the goddamn pastry cutter, yes.” Jeff sounds irritated, although it doesn’t seem aimed in Tyler’s direction.

Tyler has no idea what a pastry cutter is.

By the time the coffee is done, Tyler is busy working the dough into a ball. Jeff sets a mug in front of him. He takes the seat across from Tyler and watches him work the dough.

Jeff clears his throat. He starts to say something, but changes his mind and takes a sip of coffee instead. He sets the mug down, toying with the handle, and when he does speak, his voice is rough. “I know I’m not the easiest person in the world to talk to. But – ” He gestures vaguely at the floured surface in front of Tyler. “This is what I do when I feel bad.”

Tyler looks down at the dough in his hands, at the flour on his fingers. There doesn’t seem to be anything particular magic about it. “What, this?”

“Mike says this is my therapy.” Jeff sounds sheepish. Then he shrugs. “He also says my therapy is making him fat, but hey. What are you going to do?”

Tyler risks raising his eyes to look at him, and Jeff gives him a weak smile. “I think the weight makes him look retired,” Jeff continues. “And I’m okay with that because – well. I’m glad some things are behind us.” He looks tired.

Tyler tries to smile back at him.

From the look on Jeff’s face, it isn’t very convincing. Jeff sighs and sits back. “Put the dough in the fridge.”

Tyler frowns down at the lump in front of him. “We’re not going to use it?”

“We will,” Jeff says. “But first it has to chill.”

Jeff shows him how to wrap it, and Tyler puts the dough in the fridge and returns to his place at the table.

“So now we have about half an hour to wait. So, if you wanted to talk – ” The tone in Jeff’s voice aims for casual, but falls short. Jeff’s hand twists in a vague invitation. “You don’t have to, obviously. But if you did want to – I’m here.”

The room grows quiet enough for Tyler to hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, the creak of the oven as it heats. He turns his coffee mug in front of him. It feels strange to be sitting across from Jeff Carter. To be having this conversation with Jeff Carter, who before the Lake, Tyler only knew from TV. But then again – Tyler thinks back to the drive here, and Wayne telling him _the Lake would be a good place._ Because of who and what Mike Richards is. And Jeff. Tyler clears his throat. “Mike Richards is your – he’s your boyfriend?”

Jeff makes a surprised sound. “My boyfriend?” He considers. “Mike’s a lot of things to me. I guess ‘boyfriend’ is one of them.”

It feels weird to be talking about any of this out loud. “I think I broke up with my boyfriend tonight.”

“I’m sorry.” Jeff’s voice is quiet.

Tyler’s throat closes hard, tears threatening again. “Sorry.” He tries to pull himself together. He’s an adult, or at least he’s supposed to be. This isn’t exactly the stoicism he’s supposed to have, or the behavior of the leader he’s supposed to be. “This is really embarrassing.”

Jeff shrugs. “Sometimes bad shit happens. Crying’s a reasonable response.”

There’s nothing in his voice that makes it sound like a joke, even though the words – coming from anyone, they would be absurd, but coming from _Jeff Fucking Carter –_ Tyler knows he’s staring, but he can’t make himself look away. _Jeff Carter,_ suggesting crying like it’s an option. Like it’s even a possibility –

“Hey, don’t look so shocked.” Jeff’s mouth curves, his eyes rest on Tyler’s for just a moment. “Although to be fair, it took me a good long while to learn that.”

Tyler starts to cry.

He cries sitting at this strange kitchen table, in this old house, in this strange and isolated place. He cries with Jeff’s hand on his back, and a handkerchief hiding his face. He cries until his head hurts, and his eyes are swollen, and until he’s ready to talk.

“We – ” Tyler has to clear his throat again. “We made it all the way from Manchester together, and I thought – I didn’t think we _could_ break up.”

“Keep talking,” Jeff says, and gets up to pull the dough out of the fridge.

Tyler tells him about meeting Tanner in Manchester, while Jeff rolls the dough flat. He talks about Hamden, blushing sometimes, while he helps Jeff fill the crust with red berry preserves. He talks about Chicago, his voice cracking while Jeff shows him how to pinch the edges of the pie shut.

Tyler wipes the flour from his fingers. “We made it all the way here. But he’s miserable here.” He stares down at the pie in front of him – now recognizably pie-like, if too pale.

“He means so much to me. He means everything to me.” Tyler takes another breath. “But I don’t know what to do for him. I made him come here and he hates it here and he’s – he’s not getting better.” Tyler stops. Everything he says makes the whole situation sound shallow. Makes him sound like a child, angry about a story that didn’t end the way he wanted. And if Tanner means everything, then why are they still here? Why didn’t they leave the moment Tyler realized he was unhappy?

Tyler squeezes his eyes shut. “He’s hated it here the whole time. And I didn’t know what to do.” He swallows. “I still don’t know what to do.”

Jeff lets them sit in silence. Then he pulls the pie slowly away from Tyler, and tucks it inside the oven. He returns to the table, and his hands twist over themselves. He rubs at the knuckles of his frozen fingers, and sighs. “Sometimes there’s not a fix. Sometimes you can’t just fix people.” His fingertips trace the grain of the wood. “And that’s not your job. Even if you love him, that’s not your job.”

“But _I_ brought him here.” Tyler stares down into the dark liquid in his mug. “I’m the reason he’s here.”

“Tyler,” Jeff stops him. “I don’t know Tanner. But I’m gonna take a guess and say he’d be miserable anywhere – ”

“He _wasn’t_ before – ”

Jeff shakes his head. “Maybe you didn’t always see it, but that kind of hurt doesn’t come out of nowhere.” He takes a breath, and then another. His eyes are dark. “And when somebody’s hurting like that, he’s gonna hurt wherever he goes.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Tyler scrubs at his face. “I love him.”

“You can’t fix a person by loving them.” Jeff hesitates again. “Trust me on that.”

“Sometimes you just have to give a person time. And space.”

Tyler’s got nothing but time, but no space at all. He sinks his face down into his hands, rubbing at his temples. “I can’t go back there. I can’t sleep there.” He can hear his voice shake. “Can I sleep in the library tonight?”

Jeff hesitates, wordless and lips half-parted for one, long moment, then he rises, resting one hand on the back of Tyler’s chair. “Come on,” he says. “Get up and come with me.”

“What about the – ” Tyler gestures towards the oven. That was work.

“I’ll be back down in a bit to pull it out. We can have it for breakfast.” Jeff gives the chair a shake. “It’s late. Come with me.”

He keeps his hand on Tyler’s shoulder, and rather than back toward the library, Jeff guides him upstairs. He takes Tyler to a bedroom. Tyler looks around – a big four-poster bed fills much of the room. There are books stacked on one bedside stand, loose papers on the other. Two dressers are crammed side-by-side against the far wall. A quilt lies folded in the corner, covered in black dog hair. “Is this your room?”

Jeff pauses in the midst of pulling the blankets back. “Yes.”

Jeff Carter has a bedroom. Which is obvious, and makes perfect sense, but still makes Tyler hesitate _._ He looks around. Jeff Carter’s bedroom. Which means it’s probably a bedroom he probably shares with – Tyler pulls his arms in close to himself, uncertain. “Where’s Mike?”

“Mike’s in Winnipeg. He’s trying to hijack a cell tower.” Jeff sounds slightly exasperated, as if he had some doubts about the trip’s worth, but mostly resigned. He looks at Tyler. “He should be back tomorrow.” He gestures at the bed. “You can sleep here.”

Jeff is pointing at his own bed. Jeff Carter is pointing at Jeff Carter’s bed, that, if Mike Richards were here, would also be Mike Richards’ bed. Tyler can feel his eyes getting big. He looks at Jeff, and then at the bed, and then back again. “But what about you? Are you – ” Tyler can’t quite make himself ask.

Jeff looks amused. “I’ll be downstairs. I’ve got work to do. Wouldn’t be the first all-nighter I’ve pulled.”

Tyler hesitates. “Are you sure?”

Jeff gives him a look. He reaches down to flip the blankets back. “Get in, Tyler. I need you rested and ready to work tomorrow.”

Tyler watches his hand on the quilt, his long fingers resting on the bed. Tyler blushes – even though it’s not – it’s not anything like that. He reaches for the buttons of his shirt, but his hands are suddenly clumsy, and he fumbles, button slipping from his fingers.

Jeff clears his throat, then turns his back.

Tyler strips out of his shirt and jeans as fast as he can. He hesitates for a moment before folding them roughly, and making a stack of his clothing on the floor. He climbs into the bed, pulling the blankets back up to his waist. “Thank you.”

Jeff turns back around. He looks at Tyler.

Tyler can feel Jeff’s eyes on chest, on his bare shoulders, and he can feel a flush spreading, rising to color his cheeks. “You could stay.” Miraculously, his voice doesn’t shake.

Jeff takes a quick inhale, and his gaze lifts to meet Tyler’s eyes. There’s color in his face too, and there’s a heaviness in the air, a stillness in which everything seems suspended.

Jeff unfreezes. He moves forward toward the bed, and he reaches out to Tyler – and pulls the blanket further up Tyler’s chest. He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

Tyler’s face is red now, he can feel it. He shuts his eyes. “Sorry – ”

“It’s okay.”

Tyler feels the bed dip as Jeff settles on the edge. He feels Jeff’s hand on his face, a touch light and then firmer on his cheek, running through his hair. His deep voice steady, and near. “It’s okay. It’s okay not to want to be alone.”

Tears starts to leak free again, and he hears Jeff sigh, but his touch doesn’t stop, stays steady and gentle. Tyler turns his face towards that touch. And he falls asleep to the feeling of its weight and the slow rhythm over his skin, and back into his hair, lulling him into sleep.

 

 

Tyler returns to his and Tanner’s small room early in the morning, trudging through the cold under a sky thick with gray clouds. The damp cold tugs away the last of the warmth of this morning. The closer he gets to their room, the more distant breakfast with Jeff and Irene seems, the more the food feels like a hard lump in his stomach. And the farther away Jeff seems, with his quiet concern, and his hand on Tyler’s back, which even more than sleep or the warm food, had eased Tyler’s anxiety.

He mounts the stairs slowly. The knob turns under his hand. Unlocked.

Tanner is inside. He stills when Tyler enters, but he has a bag open on the bed in front of him, half-filled with his clothes.

His drawer in the dresser is open. He glances sidelong at Tyler, and Tyler can see he’s dressed in the same clothes from last night, can see dark circles under his eyes that suggest he hasn’t slept.

Tanner returns to his packing. “I’m gonna move into the bunkhouse.”

Tyler stays close to the doorway. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to ease a hollow feeling. He studies the bruised, shadowed look of Tanner’s face. He watches Tanner’s hands, and their quick, neat motions. He watches the careful way Tanner won’t quite look at him. He gets it.

It hurts to look at Tanner. Just the sight of him hurts, but Tyler makes himself look anyway. “Okay.”

Tanner glances up at that, gaze sharp, lips parted in surprise, like he had expected Tyler to argue. Tanner’s throat works before he looks back down. “Okay.”

Tyler nods. He doesn’t look again.

Tanner hesitates before he goes, stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for Tyler to do something. But Tyler doesn’t, and Tanner doesn’t say anything when he leaves.

 

 

Over the next stretch of weeks, Tyler spends his days the garage. He’s grateful for Sam, who doesn’t ask questions, and for Alex, who asks just once, very low, whether he needed anything, and then doesn’t stop scowling until the bruise on Tyler’s cheek fades. But mostly he’s grateful for his bike, who doesn’t care what happens, who just wants oil, and attention, and working parts.

He spends his evenings with Jeff, and occasionally Irene, who regards him with dispassionate interest, and increasingly, now that he’s back in town, with Mike.

After work, Tyler wipes the grease from his hands and bypasses the dining hall, heading straight for their small suite of private rooms, and the kitchen where Tyler had cried into pie dough.

Tonight, he walks in on Jeff sitting at the kitchen table with his arms folded, and Mike mid-eye roll, insisting, “It’s not serious.”

Jeff glances up at Tyler’s arrival, but doesn’t acknowledge him beyond waving him toward the pot sitting on the stove.

Mike doesn’t even do that. His eyes are fixed on Jeff’s face. “I’m telling you, it’s not serious.”

“How do you know it’s not serious?” Jeff asks. He has a plate in front of him, but the food on it looks untouched.

Tyler hesitates, plate in hand. “Do you want me to go? I could – ”

Without looking at him, Jeff says, “Sit.” Then to Mike, “Someone threatened to kill you.”

Mike rolls his eyes again. “Lots of people say they want to kill me.”

Jeff stares daggers at him. “You know that doesn’t make me feel any better, right?”

Mike picks up his fork. “It’s fine _._ ”

Jeff makes an exasperated face. “It’s not _fine.”_

“I could leave,” Tyler offers again.

Mike glares at him. “You heard Jeff. Sit. Eat. Besides, we’re done talking about this.”

“We are not done talking about this.” Jeff sits up straighter. He folds his hands in front of him. “I’m going with you.”

Mike frowns at him. “You hate Toronto. And besides – ”

“I’ll _deal_ with Toronto,” Jeff says. He repeats, firmer, “I’m going.”

Mike’s mouth twists, and he looks like he wants to roll his eyes again. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

Jeff’s mouth is a thin, flat line. “Either I’m going, or you’re not going.” He glares. “And _now_ we’re done talking about it.”

Mike sighs. He turns to Tyler, voice all full of false cheer. “Hello, Tyler. How are you this blissful evening?”

“Okay?” It actually feels kind of miraculous, that they can fight, but no one’s storming out. No one’s leaving. All the same. “If we’re not gonna work tonight, I really could just – ”

And then, from Mike’s pocket, comes the sound of a ringing cellphone.

Tyler stops speaking. He stares at Mike’s pocket, and even Mike seems frozen, before he fumbles the phone free, holding it out in front of him. His face breaks open into a grin. “Holy shit.” He holds the ringing phone. “It worked.”

The sound is so familiar. And so foreign. It’s been months since Tyler has heard something as simple as a ringing phone.

Jeff shakes his head, but even he seems to be holding back a grin. “Well? Answer your goddamn phone.”

Mike’s grin goes even wider. He presses the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” He pauses, frowning. “Shit, the signal’s bad, hang on.” Then he walks out of the room.

Jeff’s eyes follow him out the door, but he makes no move to stand.

Tyler watches him. “Are you going to – ”

Jeff shakes his head. “Whatever it is, I’ll hear about it.”

Tyler shifts in his seat. “So this means Mike got the tower working?”

“Yeah.” Jeff shakes his head again, but after a moment, his look slips from disbelief into something fond. “He did.”

It hurts a little bit, that they can argue so fiercely, and that Jeff can still look that way about him.

Tyler looks down at his plate, picking at the food more than eating it. “What about – can I ask – why would anybody want to kill Mike?”

Jeff laughs, so hard he almost chokes. “Sorry,” he says. He lays down his fork and turns more somber. “It’s looking more and more likely that that the Union’s going to fall sooner rather than later. Mike’s part of the group trying to negotiate how exactly the handover of power is going to work, and what things are going to look like after. So far nobody agrees on much of anything, and Mike – he’s not – he’s not the most patient man – ”

Jeff stops when Mike reappears in the doorway. He looks curious. “Well?”

But Mike is looking at Tyler, and it’s Tyler he addresses when he holds out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Tyler stares at him, frozen. “Who wants to talk to me?”

Mike raises his eyebrows, mouth twisting into something sardonic – the look he gives Tyler when he thinks Tyler is being an idiot. “Dean.”

Tyler’s breath catches. “Dean Lombardi?”

“You waiting for a call from someone else?” Mike waves him forward. “Come out on the porch where the signal’s better.”

Tyler rises. His legs feel shaky underneath him. Outside, he takes the phone from Mike with numb fingers. He raises it to his ear, heart going so hard and so fast in his chest, it feels almost impossible he’ll be able to hear anything else. His mouth is dry, but he tries to swallow back the lump in his throat. “Hello?”

“Hello, Tyler.” Dean’s voice is framed by static, crackling, but unmistakable. “How are you?”

Tyler feels the absurd desire to laugh. It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel possible. “I’m – I’m fine. How are you?” The last comes out automatic. “Where are you?” He rushes to add.

Dean laughs. Even over the staticky connection, the sound is warm. “I’m fine. I’ve been moving around a great deal.” He draws a breath. “How do you like the Lake? Do you feel safe?”

Tyler feels like his legs are about to give out. He braces himself against the porch railing. “I guess, yeah.” That sounds rude. Ungrateful. “Sorry, Yes. I do. ” Tyler’s words stumble to a stop. “I thought you’d be here.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m working on it. But I trust Mike to keep to keep you safe in the meantime.”

Tyler glances over at Mike, who’s watching Tyler’s half of the conversation with an expression of mild interest. Tyler looks back down at his feet. “And I thought – my parents might be here.”

Far away, wherever he is, Dean sighs.

Tyler’s heart seizes. “Do you know where they are?”

The silence before Dean answers seems to stretch years. “Actually, I’d hoped you’d be able to help me with that.”

Tyler hesitates, a cold shiver working its way down his spine. “Me? But I don’t know where they are.”

“I know. I know.” Dean pauses. “Did your father say anything to you, before he left?”

Tyler shakes his head, even though Dean can’t see. “No. He didn’t say anything about where they were going.”

“Tyler, listen to me. This is important. Your parents had to leave Toronto because they were protecting information. If we can get access to that information before anyone else, then they won’t have to hide. They can come home.”

Tyler’s fingers are so bloodless the phone is hard to hold onto. “I don’t understand –is this – ” And suddenly Wayne’s face is in his mind. Wayne’s voice plays in his head. “Is this about the letter?”

Dean hesitates. “Who told you about that?”

Dean’s voice is so sharp, that just for an instant, Tyler is afraid to answer. But Dean is his father’s best and oldest friend. Dean held Tyler when he was small. He taught Tyler to skate, he practically helped raise him. Tyler’s voice shakes. “Wayne did. Is it from my parents? Who is it to – ”

“Your father wrote me a letter, right after he left you in Manchester. Right before he disappeared. He was trying to tell me something, but he didn’t get a chance to finish.” Dean clears his throat. “If you know something, that information could help me find him, or help me fix things, so that he can come home. So if he said anything – _anything_ to you, I need to know. Anything that seemed strange. A number. Maybe a name he told you to remember – ”

Tyler’s head is still shaking. And he can’t see. The world blurs around him. “He just said he loved me. He said they’d be back for me.” His voice cracks. “That’s all he said. I _swear._ ”

“Okay, okay. If you do remember something,” Dean presses on. “I need you to tell me and not anyone else.” Dean’s tone is sharp. “Information can be dangerous, Tyler. I want to keep you safe, I want to keep your parents safe, but there are people out there who would hurt you for this.”

“I don’t – ” I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tyler wants to scream. “I don’t know what you want –”

“Mike will know how to get in touch with me, if you need to.”

“You aren’t coming here?”

A buzzing comes over the line, static crackling loudly.

“Dean?” There’s no response. “Dean?”

The line is dead.

 

 

Tyler walks back to his room in a daze. Jeff sent him home early, after Tyler kept staring at the computer monitor and forgetting to type. Stray bits of icy rain are hitting his face, but he doesn’t rush.

He twists his hands inside his pockets. These are the things he knows: Dean is out there, somewhere, and can’t or won’t tell him where. Dean doesn’t know where Tyler’s parents are. He doesn’t know if they’re okay, but he also doesn’t know that they’re not.

And Dean wants Tyler to tell him something. Some piece of information his father knows, but Dean doesn’t.

And Dean wants to keep him safe.

Tyler’s steps grind to a halt. Rain batters at the back of his hood.

Which one of those things does Dean want more?

Tyler starts walking again. Dean is a slick man, a careful man. But Tyler didn’t grow up hanging at his every word, always at his elbow, without learning to recognize all the shifts in his voice.

And this is what Tyler doesn’t know: what exactly Dean wants Tyler to be able to tell him. Why he won’t just tell Tyler what he wants to know. How his parents got involved with any of it. Where his parents are now.

He closes his eyes and replays that first night in Manchester. He can see his mother’s white face. He can feel how windy it was that night; he remembers how the wind caught and pulled at his father’s coat and his hair. He remembers seeing his father’s hands shake as they fastened PerT tags, for the very first time, around Tyler’s neck. And he remembers every word of what his father said: “I love you. And we will come back. I promise you. I promise.”

Maybe it’s a dream. Maybe Tyler will open his eyes and see his bedroom ceiling in Scarborough. He’ll rise, and walk down the hall, and find his parents there and the world still intact.

A bead of cold rain hits his face. Tyler opens his eyes. He really is at the Lake. And his family isn’t. Dean, who is almost family, won’t tell him anything that matters. And Tanner – Tyler swallows, hard – who he wants as family, Tanner left.

He hurries the rest of the walk home. Head down against the wind.

He doesn’t see Tanner, until he’s very, very close, almost at the steps leading up to their – to Tyler’s – front door.

Tanner is sitting on those steps, hunched with arms folded tight to his chest and hands hidden. He lifts his head in time to watch Tyler drift to a halt.

Tyler feels his mouth fall open. “What are you doing here?”

Tanner looks at him, long enough and so still that Tyler thinks he might be a hallucination. Except for that Tyler can see the way the rain has flattened his hair. Can see the shadow of scruff on his chin, and dark circles under his eyes.

Tanner shrugs. “I wanted to see you. I never see you anymore.” He looks at Tyler, frowning, as though it was Tyler’s fault that this was true.

Tyler’s mouth works. He looks away. “That’s the point. That was the whole point of you moving out. So we didn’t have to see each other.”

Tanner stands, unfolds the long, fluid stretch of himself. “I wanted to see you,” he says. He comes close enough that he lay his hands on Tyler’s shoulders. A touch so light and so careful, Tyler has to look down to make sure it’s real. “You don’t want to see me?”

Every single day since Tyler was old enough to want, he had wanted to see the person he loved there to greet him at the end of the day. Every single day was one unending stretch of the desire to be wanted, to be touched. And ever since he had first seen him, he had wanted that touch to be Tanner’s.

Tanner lifts a hand, lays cold fingers against Tyler’s cheek. Tyler closes his eyes and presses into it.

But this close, Tyler can feel a tremor in Tanner’s hand. He can smell the sickly-sweet tang of alcohol on Tanner’s breath. Tanner wants him, but only like this.

“I wanted to see you,” Tanner says, right up against Tyler’s ear.

And Tyler doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about why. He doesn’t care about how. Tyler takes him by the hand. He says, “Come in.”

Tyler left the heater running, and the warmth inside makes sweat pop up on his upper lip, at his hairline. Tanner follows him in, right on his heels, barely letting Tyler get through the door before he’s right there, arms sliding around Tyler’s waist, tugging roughly at his clothing, his mouth closing over Tyler’s.

Tyler gasps for air. Everything feels like it’s pressing down on him. He’s dizzy with the heat and the closeness, and terrified, all at once, that that it might go away. He grabs at Tanner. “Hold me,” he says. And he doesn’t care how he sounds, how breathless, or desperate. “Please. Hold me.”

Tanner is bitter with the taste of alcohol. He smells like sweat and wool, and under his clothes, his skin is flushed and feverish. Tanner takes ahold of him, both arms around him, hands in his hair, digging into his shoulder. He walks Tyler backwards, pushes him down against the bed, and Tyler doesn’t fight.

He’s over Tyler, moving above him and rough up against him. Tyler grabs and holds on. Tanner blurs above him, his face broken up into fragments by the porch light spilling in front outside and the dark of the room. He leans down, into Tyler, puts his mouth back over Tyler’s, until Tyler is dizzy, uncertain of when or how he’ll breathe again. When he gets Tyler’s clothes out of the way, he rakes his fingers down Tyler’s sides, and when Tyler hisses, he does it again.

Tanner’s knee pushes between Tyler’s thighs. Tyler can hear him panting, can feel his fingers sliding, and then blunt and searching.

He fucks Tyler, too desperate and too fast. The pain makes Tyler suck in air between his teeth and grab Tanner with his hands and knees, and demand more.

Sweat stings Tyler’s eyes, and his nails leave red half-moons in the skin of Tanner’s shoulders. Tanner pants out fast, croaking breaths. His hand is on Tyler’s dick, working slick between them. His lips hover just over Tyler’s, coaxing now, encouragement that breaks down into wordless sounds when Tyler stiffens, thrusts up one last time, and gasps.

Tanner moans, his head bowed, and Tyler reaches up, pushes the sweat-heavy hair out of his face. He fucks hard into Tyler, gasping, struggling, something ferocious in his eyes. When Tanner comes inside him, he groans like he’s dying, and he holds Tyler like he’ll never let go.

Tyler holds him close. Holds him tight through all of it.

 

 

Tyler wakes to the sound of Tanner vomiting in the bathroom.

The morning light is thin and gray. Tyler lies very still on the bed. He tests his body, one muscle at a time. He didn’t drink anything. He’s not the one who’s hungover, but he still feels raw and sore. He sits up, letting the blankets pool in his lap, and looks at himself in the mirror that hangs over the dresser. There are scratches on his shoulder. A bruise on his throat.

From behind the door, the sounds of Tanner retching pause, and are followed by the sound of running water.

Tyler slips from the bed. He pulls on his clothes. Tanner’s head will probably hurt, so with slow, methodical motions, Tyler digs a bottle of aspirin from a drawer and fills a glass with water from the canteen he keeps on the desk. He might want something to settle his stomach, so Tyler grabs a muffin he took from the dining hall.

He places these items next to each other on the dresser, and studies the tableau he has made. All perfectly spaced. All in a tidy row.

And then he waits for Tanner to come out. He doesn’t know how long he waits. Long enough to imagine striking all three items to the ground. Long enough to imagine wrenching the door to the bathroom open and begging him to stay –

Tanner’s dressed when he emerges. His eyes are red. The scruff on his face makes him look rough, exhausted. He looks at the row of items on the dresser, and then he looks at Tyler.

Tyler gestures at his offering, a hand held open. He looks at Tanner. “Don’t come back here again.”

 

 

If it were that simple, it would be so easy. But he can feel Tanner in every atom of this place. He can smell him in the sheets, he hears constant echoes of his voice, and every face Tyler catches out of the corner of his eye is his.

Tyler mounts the steps to the Lodge. He makes his way through the hall, and he finds Jeff and Mike just sitting down to breakfast. The easy rise and fall of their conversation pauses when he comes in.

Tyler swallows. “Take me to Toronto with you,” he says. “Please. When you go, take me with you.”

 

* * *

 


	5. For Which It Stands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: series-typical violence. Also, my apologies to detail-oriented people within the following groups: residents of the GTA, information security experts, motorcycle enthusiasts. 
> 
> Sorry, I did my best.

* * *

 

“Where did you put the draft?” Tyler is elbow-deep in the filing cabinet in Mike’s office, trying to flick through documents and get Mike’s attention and not step on the dog, which is nosing at his feet. 

There’s no answer from Mike. They don’t have time for this. Tyler glances over his shoulder. “Mike. The draft?” 

“It’s in there.” Mike is busy struggling with the buttons of his cuffs, so at least he’s making an effort for today’s meeting. At least there’s that, even if his tie is still hanging undone around his neck, jacket and coat still MIA. 

“I alphabetized our filing system for a reason, you know.” Tyler flips through the files, slower this time, but with increasing irritation. One of the papers slices into the pad of his thumb, and he pauses for a second to suck at the sharp pain, taking the opportunity to dart another glance at Mike. “Also, your tie.” 

Jeff appears, Mike’s satchel and jacket in his hands. “You left it in the apartment.” 

Mike nods a distracted thanks. “I know it’s alphabetized.” Mike’s still fiddling with his cuffs. He doesn’t even look up when Jeff pulls the tie from around his neck. “That’s why I filed it under ‘N’, for Not Done.” 

Tyler stops and takes half a second to close his eyes. It’s just the draft of the transition plan for the whole fucking country. No reason to be careful where they put it or anything. He counts – quickly, because they’re very, very late now – to ten before opening his eyes. Then he flips to ‘N’ and snags the draft. 

On the other side of the room, Mike ducks away from Jeff, who has done Mike’s tie up in a loose knot around his own neck and is now attempting to transfer it to Mike. Mike scowls. “Oh, come on. It’s just a meeting with the other Players, none of them care if I’m wearing a tie.” 

“Yeah, but you’re in charge. You should be wearing a tie.” Jeff reaches in again. 

“That’s exactly why I shouldn’t have to wear a tie.” 

Jeff glares. Mike relents and holds still. 

Draft in hand, Tyler starts toward them and manages to trip over the dog in the process, sending him stumbling. The dog yelps. “Son of a – ” 

“Arnold,” Mike says. The small note of chastisement in his voice is gentler than anything he ever directs in Tyler’s direction. 

The dog turns, walks obediently to the blanket in the corner of the room, and drops down on it. Tyler dumps the draft into a red folder so he can find it later. The folder goes into Mike’s already over-flowing satchel. “You have the latest vote counts?” 

“Yes.” Mike is standing with his chin lifted, letting Jeff fuss over the knot. 

“The schedule?” 

“It’s – uh, on the desk. In the blue folder. Jeff, come on, it’s fine – ” 

Tyler grabs the blue folder, flips it open to make sure it actually contains the schedule. The date the draft is due and the date of the vote loom across the page in thick, red letters. They’ve been in Toronto a month; Tyler’s been staring at this schedule every day, but it still feels like these dates have snuck up on them. He closes the folder and stuffs it in next to the draft. “What about the meeting agenda?” 

“It’s in there.” Mike nods toward his bag. 

“Are you sure?” 

“ _Yes._ ” Mike pulls away sharply. “Jeff – stop.” 

Jeff drops the tie, hands coming away instantly, palms held up for Mike to see. 

Tyler doesn’t miss the sharp, irritated edge in Mike’s voice, but he also doesn’t miss the brief squeeze Mike gives Jeff’s arm in silent apology. Mike asks Jeff, “You coming?” 

Jeff shakes his head. “Lewy said he was gonna drop by the office before he heads out.” 

“Say hi for me if I miss him.” Mike nods at Tyler. “Okay, let’s go.” 

Halfway down the stairs, Mike stops short. “Oh – my coat.” 

“I’ll get it.” Tyler jogs back up to the office. Past Jeff, who watches him wordlessly while he snatches Mike’s overcoat from the back of the door. The dog doesn’t even bother to lift his head. 

On the second try, they make it out the door, and head out towards the park that lies between the Players’ offices and the main legislative campus. Tyler eyes the clouds pushing slow and heavy across the sky. It’s been a wet spring. The gutters are choked with mud which has mixed with the city grit, the debris of ruined buildings, and salt to form complicated striations in the runoff. 

When Tyler had first arrived in Toronto, he’d thought the fact that all the Players had their offices so far from the main buildings was some kind of insult. Most of the Unionists are housed in the stately Legislative building itself, where many of them had offices long before this particular transition Assembly was convened. And the Independents – the motley collection of representatives sent to the Assembly by provinces loyal to neither the Unionists or the Players – had filled in the empty spaces in the surrounding buildings. But the Players all have their offices on the far side of the park, a good half mile away. 

After asking Mike, Tyler discovered that this had been the choice of the Players themselves, intended as some kind of statement. Although Tyler has never asked whether anyone thinks what they were stating is still worth the long daily trudge through the mud. 

Tyler picks his way carefully. As they get closer to Bay Street, there are more and more burned and blackened piles – debris that was left where it fell last fall when the fighting was at its peak, and that the melting snow has revealed. Between these piles, the rain has turned the pits and craters in the roadways into small, rust-colored ponds that Tyler has to skirt around. 

Mike, who upon arrival to Toronto, had said he would give up his work boots _over his cold dead body_ , trudges straight through. 

There are more missing buildings in this section of downtown, too, replaced by empty lots and rubble. Bay Street marks the formal divide. An almost perfect north-south line that stretches from the tip of the Hudson Bay to the where the Atlantic curves inward toward the Red & Silver delineates what is still Union-held, and it bisects Toronto neatly down the middle. 

Everything to the east, except for small pockets of resistance, still formally under the Union’s thumb. Everything to the west – well, that’s what Mike and his compatriots are trying to figure out. 

As they walk, Tyler eyes the long cement barriers, topped with glistening barbed wire. Somewhere on the far side of that divide is his parent’s house. He pictures it empty and waiting. Or maybe someone new has taken up residence, moved right in and shoved all Tyler’s family’s things to the side. Or maybe it’s gone entirely, and in his head, he sees it crushed to dust, just as thoroughly as the buildings he and Mike are currently walking past. 

The rain has started up again by the time they reach the Assembly building. Outside the chamber, Mike sheds his coat and bag, shoving both at Tyler, and jolting him from thoughts of what might be to the here-and-now present. 

Tyler’s grateful for the distraction. He digs into the bag and passes Mike back the folders he’ll need for the meeting. 

Mike takes them, sticking them under his arm with a casualness that belies the fact that he’s holding the plan for a sweeping transition of power, a way to deal with the crumbling of a country, and possibly, the outline for an entire new government. 

Tyler suppresses the urge to wince. 

“Oh,” Mike says, “and can you make copies of the agenda for everyone?” 

Tyler stops trying to balance the bag on his shoulder in order to glare at him. “You said you were going to have someone make copies yesterday.” 

“Yeah, but then I ran out of time. Relax, it’ll take at least twenty minutes for everybody to settle and stop bitching about the weather. You have plenty of time.” Mike grins at him. 

Tyler maintains his glare. “Fine, yes. I’ll be right back.” 

Mike disappears into the meeting room. Tyler shoulders the bag and the coat, and heads for the copy machine in the aides’ break room. He dumps Mike’s coat in a chair, tossing a quick wave to the other Players’ aides already scattered around the room. He digs into the bag. The different compartments are all filled with Mike’s scribbled notes, mostly on folded and torn scraps of paper, but occasionally on napkins, and one flattened paper cup. 

He finds other copies of the draft. Older versions covered with angry red pen and whole sections crossed out. He finds agendas from the endless meetings Mike has attended since they got here, several of them covered in doodled stick figures dying in increasingly creative and morbid ways. 

He does not find the agenda for the current meeting. 

Tyler checks again, looking carefully through each section of the bag. He even checks the special inside pocket where Jeff leaves Mike notes, and that Tyler is one hundred-percent certain he is not supposed to know about and will absolutely never acknowledge. 

No agenda. 

“Fuck me,” Tyler mutters, glancing at the clock. 

From behind him, a voice says, “Hey – it’s Tyler, right?” 

Tyler jumps. He’s irritated even before he turns around, because no one likes being startled, but he’s more irritated when he sees who it is. The voice belongs to one of the Unionist aides – they’re easy to spot, only the Unionists make their aides race around the Assembly in jackets and ties. Tyler vaguely recognizes this one, he’s tall with foppish blond hair. He’s got a pocket square, and a Union flag pin. He looks like he walked out of Tyler’s long-ago country club days, and Tyler imagines his name is probably Everett or Atherton or something equally awful. 

Tyler draws himself up, folding his arms across his chest. The other Player aides in the room are eyeing the new guy, too. Unionist aides hardly ever use this break room. Most of the Unionist Assembly members have the nicer office suites – with their own, private rooms for their aides to work in. Their own printers and copiers, and probably, Tyler likes to think, espresso machines and mini bars. 

“If you’re here to run copies, we charge.” Tyler points to the jar on the shelf next to the copier, half-full of change. 

“No thanks.” The Unionist aide’s eyes flicker over the battered copier. A look of disgust tinged with pity flits across his face. “I don’t need copies. I’m here on behalf of Councilor McCarthy.” 

If there was anybody in the room who wasn’t paying attention before, they definitely are now. 

Tyler pretends to consider this for a moment, wanting to make it clear that name-dropping the most powerful Unionist in Toronto is not about to make him move any faster. Especially not if this aide’s spouting out his old title, as if none of the upheaval had happened at all. “Representative McCarthy,” Tyler corrects. “There is no Council anymore.” 

The aide’s expression stiffens. “Regardless,” he continues, voice cool, “I am here on his behalf to request an advance copy of the Players’ transition plan. He would most grateful to have more time to review it. He’s a very busy man.” 

Tyler doesn’t like the way this guy is looking down his nose at everyone in the room. Tyler doesn’t like the precision folds of his slacks or the silk-jacquard tie, or the shirt which Tyler would be willing to wager his motorcycle is monogramed. Tyler doesn’t like his boss, or his boss’ politics. He doesn’t like the implication that McCarthy is the only one busy with real work, as if the Players are just standing around with their dicks in their hands. 

And he really doesn’t like that McCarthy feels entitled to an advance copy of a plan that doesn’t even exist yet. 

Not that anybody outside the Players’ steering committee needs to know that. 

Tyler smiles, showing his teeth. “Well in that case, we’ll get it to you just as soon as we _possibly_ can,” he says, putting his best posh emphasis on the words, and stretches his smile wider. 

McCarthy’s aide looks like he’s straining to bite back a sharper response under his own false smile. “Wonderful.” He tosses one last glance around the room, nodding at Tyler and the other aides. “I’ll let the Councilor know how helpful you’ve been.” 

Tyler watches the doorframe until the aide disappears fully from view. Then he lets out a long breath. 

Foligno’s aide, a tall kid named Zach, whistles. “What a dick.” 

Tyler shifts his glare to him. “What’d you have to let him sneak up on me for?” 

Zach shrugs. “How was I supposed to know he was gonna ask for you?” He pauses, a small grin creeping onto his face. “A pocket square? Really?” 

Tyler snorts. 

“You bluffed him good, though.” Zach laughs. “No way McCarthy’s getting a look at our transition plan before Lombardi signs off on it, right?” 

Tyler, who had gone back to checking Mike’s satchel again, in the hope that the agenda might materialize out of thin air, freezes. 

Dean Lombardi isn’t here. Dean, who everyone – including most of the Players themselves – assumes is the acting head of the Players’ party, hasn’t bothered to show up to the Assembly. Nor has he sent any word on when he might. 

Tyler knows that. Mike knows that. Tyler’s not sure if any of the other Players do. 

And they’re running out of time before the vote on the Players’ transition plan is scheduled. 

Tyler does not have time for this conversation right now. “Hey, can you watch this stuff for a minute?” He doesn’t wait for Zach to answer. He flips his collar up and heads back out into the rain, jogging across the park, back to the office. 

Jeff looks up from the papers in front of him when Tyler comes in, red-faced and dripping rainwater. “Agenda,” Tyler says by way of explanation, and starts digging through the mess on Mike’s desk. 

He finds it under a pile of scrap paper. He stuffs it into a plastic folder for protection and takes off again, back across the park. 

He’s out of breath by the time he makes it to the Assembly building. Life in Toronto is going to make him fat and soft if he’s not careful. Tyler takes the stairs two at time. He runs copies, straightens his collar, puts his shoulders back, and walks into the Assembly room with purposeful steps, eyes down, silent. He places the pile at Mike’s elbow. 

“What took you so long?” Mike hisses. 

Tyler shoots him a glare. “I’ll see you back at the office.” 

 

 

After trudging across the park for the fourth time that day, cursing Mike silently the entire way, he re-enters Mike’s office to find Jeff talking to Trevor Lewis. 

Tyler removes his dripping jacket and tosses Jeff a quick look that asks, _you need me for this?_

Jeff gives an almost invisible shake of his head, so Tyler pulls one of the remaining office chairs up close to the radiator in an attempt to start to dry off. The radiator in Mike’s office clangs and hisses, and occasionally spits water, but at least it works. The heating in the break room the Assembly aides use is theoretical at best. 

The rest of the office is sparse and anonymous – holding just Mike’s desk, buried under stacks of paper, a few wobbly plastic chairs, and the lumpy couch that Jeff and Lewis are sitting on. Everything in the room has the clinging smell of mildew and the flimsy feel of particleboard, like the furniture might collapse at any moment if real weight was put on it 

Behind the desk, a Black flag is pinned to the wall. 

The radiator is next to the window, and looking down, Tyler can see the broad sweep of Toronto’s streets. Farther out, against the skyline, he can see the skeletons of older construction projects. Buildings started in the optimism and stability of peace, but never finished once the fighting began. Tyler tucks himself closer to the heat. 

Behind him, the conversation resumes. Trevor Lewis says, “Pain the ass,” in response to some question Jeff must have asked just before Tyler came in. “I mean, travel out west isn’t as bad as used to be, now that the corridor is settled, but – ” His voice trails off. 

Jeff sighs. “How long did it take you?” 

“Three days.” 

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” 

“I have my ways. Probably be slower for most people.” 

Jeff asks, “When are you leaving?” 

“Either today or tomorrow,” Lewis answers. “It depends on who Richie is meeting with this afternoon, and if anything’s gonna come out of that meeting worth waiting on.” 

“He’s in with the Players’ steering committee now, but – Tyler?” 

Tyler’s eyes are still on the lattice of a half-finished skyscraper. The arrogance it would take to break ground on something like that. The hope. 

Maybe his dad worked on one of them. Although it’s hard to think of his dad’s work as majestic when Jeff Carter is sitting right here in the room with him – 

“Tyler,” Jeff repeats, louder this time, and Tyler realizes both Jeff and Lewis are now staring at him. 

Tyler drags himself back to the present. “Sorry, yes?” 

“What’s Mike’s schedule the rest of today?” 

Tyler moves to the desk and shuffles through the stray papers until he finds the current version of Mike’s schedule. “After he’s done with the steering committee, he has a meeting with the new head of the Orange’s delegation, to talk about –” He scans the rest of the page, “ – water distribution.” 

Jeff frowns. “Who did the Orange send?” 

Tyler flips to the appropriate section of his notes. “Representative Margaret Stevens,” he reads. Tyler doesn’t recognize the name, but when he looks up, Jeff’s face has gone conspicuously gray. 

Jeff glances at Lewis, who looks back at Jeff with an expression Tyler can’t read. 

“Well.” Lewis draws the word out. He’s dropped his eyes, and appears to be studying his nails intently. “I think it’s a safe bet that not much is going to come out of that meeting.” 

Jeff fixes him with a look, but doesn’t dispute the point. “Travel safe, Lewy,” he says. 

Lewis claps him on the shoulder before he goes. 

Jeff watches him leave, his fingers drumming across the arm of the couch. He stops all at once, eyes fixed on Tyler. “I’m going to step out for this meeting. Will you tell Mike that I’m at the library, and that I’ll be back in a few hours?” 

Tyler frowns. The Orange’s Representative is marked down in his notes as one of the Independents, and meetings with people from outside the Players’ party tend to go smoother when Jeff is there. Jeff almost never says anything, but he can rein Mike in with a look. “Are you sure? It’s looking ugly out there.” 

But Jeff is already at the door. “Trust me. It’s better if I’m not here for this one.” 

After Jeff leaves, Tyler drops back into his chair by the radiator. He rests his head in his hand and closes his eyes. Just for a minute. 

He starts at the feeling of the dog’s nose pushing insistently against his leg, and a knocking at the door. 

Tyler blinks, disoriented and dry-mouthed. A second ago, he’d been in Toronto, but Toronto like it was before, with green parks, and no craters in the streets, and he’d been walking with his parents – 

Dreaming. He’d been asleep. He glances at the clock, trying to figure out how long he’d been out – too long. The knock comes again, insistent. 

That has to be the Orange Representative. Tyler hasn’t met Representative Stevens, and he doesn’t know what to expect, but he’s already wincing thinking about someone new sitting in judgment of the state of Mike’s office. 

Tyler looks around at the overflowing chaos of paper, the dog hair on the chairs, the drawers of the file cabinet standing open. And of course, Mike himself nowhere to be seen. 

He swipes at his own wrinkled shirt, slams the file cabinet closed, sweeps what he can into approximations of piles, runs a hand through his hair and opens the door. “Representative Stevens?” 

Representative Stevens is not the monster that Jeff’s reaction led Tyler to half-expect. She is a slight, dark-haired woman. Beautiful enough to make Tyler self-conscious of his own disheveled appearance. She enters carrying a briefcase in one hand, a thick binder in the other. Tyler holds the door for her, glancing into the hallway to see if there are any aides trailing her. The Unionists tend to have fleets of aides and attendants, and Players all seem to move in packs – but Representative Stevens is alone. 

Tyler closes the door. 

She stands in the middle of the room. If the state of Mike’s office is any surprise, her face doesn’t let on. 

“Representative Richards is running just a few minutes late.” Tyler holds a hand toward the chair, offering her a seat. “Please.” 

She smiles at him and sits, one leg folded gracefully over the other, briefcase placed at her side. 

“He should just be here soon. Can I get you anything? We have coffee or – ” Not a lot, actually, “ – or coffee?” 

“I’m fine, thank you.” Her eyes are a warm brown. She watches him closely. “He’s meeting with the Players’ steering committee?” 

Tyler nods. “That’s right.” 

“I imagine those always run long.” She shifts, resettling the binder on her lap. “Hockey players love any chance to get together and tell war stories.” 

She speaks with a sense of casual knowledge, as if she knows very well what hockey players are like. And as if she’s not intimidated by them at all, which is rare for an Independent. “Maybe especially Representative Richards?” Something in her voice invites him in, like rather than political opposition, she and Tyler were just speaking of an old, mutual friend. 

Tyler allows himself a very small smile in return. “Keeping Representative Richards’ on schedule can be – ah – challenging.” 

She grins. “I imagine. You’re his aide?” 

“Yes. I’m Tyler.” He holds out his hand. 

She takes it. Her hand is very soft in his. “A pleasure, Tyler. It’s got to take time though, hammering out the details on the final draft of their plan. That’s important work.” 

“Actually – ” Tyler stops himself just short of telling her how final the draft isn’t. How much they still have to work out. All of that had been right on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out, just because she smiled at him. “Actually, let me just duck out for a moment and see if I can get you a better estimate of when Representative Richards will be here.” 

As if she can hear his thoughts, her grin takes on a note of slyness. “Of course.” 

Tyler lets himself out of the room. He takes the stairs two at a time. Outside, a spray of rain hits him full and cold in the face, but just inside the park, he finds Mike talking with Doan and Iginla, all of them frowning, all of them oblivious to the weather. 

“Sorry to interrupt.” Tyler nods at each of them. “Representative Richards, you have another meeting.” 

“Fuck, right. We’ll pick this up tomorrow?” At their answering murmurs, Mike turns to follow Tyler. Out of earshot, he adds, “Doan is such a fucking idiot.” 

Hands tucked deep in his pockets and face turned down to avoid the wind, Tyler asks, “How did the meeting go?” 

“Doan’s an idiot,” Mike repeats. 

Mike says that all the time; it’s not a particularly informative statement. Tyler frowns and tries again. “Okay, but did you finalize the transition plan?” 

Mike waves a vague hand. 

Tyler restrains himself from rolling his eyes. He does allow himself a sarcastic tone to say, “What does – ” and mimics the loose, circling wave Mike had made, “ –mean?” 

Mike turns a glare at Tyler, the intimidation effect lessened by the wind whipping his hair into his eyes. “It means we spent the whole time going back and forth about the Hamden Compromise. Which Doan won’t drop his support of.” A sour expression curls his lips. “So, no. We don’t have a final version.” 

Tyler makes a mental note to set up a meeting for Mike with Doan later. Although it can’t be too much later. “Did you remind him the deadline is – ” 

“Yes, Tyler. I reminded him. He knows, I know, we all know.” Letting them both into the building, Mike shakes the excess rainwater from his coat before pulling it off. “Who am I supposed to be meeting with anyway?” He turns for the stairs. 

“Wait.” 

“I thought I was late?” 

“You are, but – ” Tyler reaches towards him. “You also have a leaf in your hair.” 

Mike’s sleeves are also rolled, his tie askew. A smudge of grease mars the front of his shirt, because Mike has a nervous habit of reaching absentmindedly for the breast pocket that would be there if he were wearing a flannel, but isn’t, because he’s in a dress shirt. But there’s not a lot Tyler can do about that right now. 

“It’s windy out there,” Mike grumbles, but one hand does come up to find and remove the leaf. 

He manages to leave his hair more askew than before, but Tyler bites his tongue. It would probably be overstepping his place to suggest that Mike needs a haircut. Besides, they don’t have time to get into it at the moment. 

But while the Players might not care what Mike’s hair looks like, or that he almost never wears a suit jacket, or tie, or that he’s brought his dog with him and lets it sleep in the corner of the office, the other people at the Assembly certainly do. Especially the Unionists. The Unionists are old guard – the people who were in power when the Union was fully in control. They like things neat and orderly, and formal. Tyler should know: he was raised around those kind of people – in that crowd, wearing the wrong tie to the country club could get you talked about for months. 

Tyler reaches to take his coat. Might as well give Mike all the news he can while he has his attention. “Also, McCarthy’s people asked us again for an advance copy.” 

Mike’s face makes it clear how he feels about that, even before he opens his mouth. “They say they want to work with us on this transition, but that fucking snake is just looking for ways to keep everything exactly the same. Keep us all under their thumb. Fuck if I’m gonna give him more time to figure out how.” Mike’s voice trails off into a mumble. “Fucking Unionist dinosaur. Next time, I oughta tell him to go fuck himself. Better yet,” Mike nods at Tyler, “I should send you to go tell him to fuck himself. That would really piss him off.” 

Tyler is not about to go tell the senior member of the Unionist contingent, and probably the single most powerful person in Toronto, to fuck himself, but he keeps his mouth shut. Mike already looks pissed enough. 

Heading up the stairs, Mike gestures impatiently. “Come on, Tyler, who am I meeting with next?” 

Mike looks pissed enough that Tyler’s not entirely sure it wouldn’t be a better idea to just cancel the last meeting of the day. Let Mike take the dog out to walk the streets of Toronto, or whatever it is he does to unwind. Maybe Tyler should hole up in the aide break room for a few hours and let Mike and Jeff have the apartment to themselves tonight. 

Except with a looming deadline, they don’t have time for any of that. Tyler clears his throat. “The representative from the Orange requested a meeting to talk about – ” Tyler racks his memory, “ – water distribution.” 

“Water distribution?” Mike makes a face. “Who’d they send?” 

Sometimes he and Jeff are so alike it’s scary. “Margaret Stevens is heading the delegation.” 

Mike stops short, right on the stair landing. He looks the rest of the way up the flight towards his office. “Is Jeff in there with her?” 

Mike’s face is white. His hand grips the railing. The Orange rep has made both Mike and Jeff act even weirder than usual. Carefully, not sure if it’s going to make the situation better or worse, Tyler tells him, “he went to the library. He said to tell you he’d be back in a few hours.” 

Mike’s expression eases, just a little. “Small mercy there, I suppose.” 

Tyler frowns. “Is there something I should know?” 

But Mike is already back in motion. He’s put his shoulders back and started forward. “Might as well get this over with.” 

Representative Stevens stands as they enter. “Representative Richards.” 

Mike stops in the doorway so that Tyler has to edge around him. He studies Stevens’ face. “You know, I never know what to call you.” 

Tyler glances back sharply. He’s only been Mike’s aide for about a month, but he’s been around long enough to know when a meeting is about to go really, _really_ bad. 

Representative Stevens doesn’t seem upset by his response. She sits again while Mike crosses to his place behind his desk. “Frankly, I don’t care what you call me, as long as you write water distribution into your transition plan.” She smiles, but there’s ice in her tone to equal Mike’s. 

Mike leans forward, gripping the edge of the desk in a way that makes Tyler anxious. “We’re trying to negotiate a handover of power. We’re trying to come up with a plan for a whole new country, a whole new government for – whatever the fuck is supposed to come next. And you want me to worry about some pipes?” 

His voice has been rising with each word, but Stevens doesn’t flinch. “These details,” Representative Stevens starts, pulling a packet of bound pages from her binder, “ _need_ to be in the plan – ” 

“We’re supposed to have a final version of this to distribute in _three days._ You’re asking me to totally re-write – ” 

She raises one eyebrow in an expression of delicate contempt. “I haven’t asked you anything, because you won’t let me finish. This wouldn’t require extensive re-writing, I’m just asking you to add language for basic necessities during the transition.” 

Mike’s face is red. “That’s a whole level of detail we haven’t even touched on. I’m still trying to get a group of people who don’t really want to give up power and another group who aren’t fully convinced they want to stop fighting to sit in a room together, we’re not even close to – ” 

Representative Stevens is leaning forward, too. So close the edge of her binder brushes Mike’s desk. “People need clean water _now_. And if we don’t figure out how to get them basic necessities, whatever new government you come up with is going to last just long enough to be torn down.” 

Tyler glances back and forth between them, both of them too busy staring daggers to pay any attention him. He’s supposed to be taking notes, but so far the page in front of him is blank. Technically, Tyler is working for Mike, but the thing is – Stevens isn’t wrong. It’s hard to imagine that people like Katrina back in Chicago, or the thousands of people out there like her, caring about who gets them the resources that they need. They just care that they get them. And they really care if they don’t. 

Mike laughs. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? You love watching things go down in flames.” 

She doesn’t react at all. “Mike – ” 

“Yes, Julia?” His hand cuts through the air, a sharp, frustrated gesture. “Maggie. _Whatever_.” 

Her mouth curves in a vicious grin. “Oh, come on. I bet you can think of way worse names to call me than that.” 

“I absolutely can.” His voice has the low rasp of a threat. Mike stills. “But I think it’s time for you to leave.” 

Representative Stevens takes a breath. She sits upright, her hands clasped tightly together. She closes her eyes for a moment before continuing, more calmly. “Mike, I am – I am trying to work with you.” She hesitates again. “The Independents nominated me to their leadership. We want to work with the Players on this. But if you’re not willing to help, we can approach the Unionists just as easily.” She places the binder on his desk and sits back. “Just read it, at least?” 

Mike doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t look at the binder. 

The urge to say something into the silence that stretches between Mike and Stevens is almost overwhelming. Tyler bites his tongue. Maybe Stevens could have approached this better, but Mike is being short-sighted. Mike has enough sway within the Players’ voting block to get them to vote any way he likes, but the Unionists and the Independents get to vote on whether to approve the plan, too. To get anything done the Players are going to have to cooperate with _someone._

Representative Stevens stands when it becomes clear no immediate response from Mike is going to be forthcoming. “Thank you,” she says, although there’s anything but gratitude in her voice. “For your time.” 

It takes Tyler a second to realize she’s leaving, and to snap out of his daze. He has to scramble to get the door for her. She gives him a tight nod on her way out. 

Tyler closes the door. He turns. Mike still hasn’t moved – shoulders still taut, hands still clamped on the edge of the desk. Tyler’s not sure what to make of what just happened. “So, should I – ” 

Mike grabs the binder she left and hurls it. The pages flutter and splay wildly before it smacks against the wall. 

Tyler stares at it, the awkward angle of the cover. The bent and folded pages. “Right.” He looks up at Mike. “You know, we _are_ going to need some support outside the Players. If Representative Stevens decides to ally with the Unionists instead – ” 

“Tyler, I am well fucking aware of how consensus works.” Mike cuts him off. “She wouldn’t have come here unless it was her last fucking option. Trust me on that.” 

“Okay,” Tyler says quietly. 

Mike sighs. He rubs his forehead. “Do me a favor and go get Jeff, will you? Tell him it’s safe for him to come back.” 

 

 

True to his word, Jeff is in the library, reading at one of the long, wooden tables that fill the room. Tyler drops down into the seat across from him with a heavy sigh. 

Jeff looks up and raises an eyebrow. In response to the unspoken question, Tyler lets his head sink down until his forehead rests against the table. 

He hears Jeff snort. “That bad, huh?” 

Tyler drags himself more upright, rests his chin in his hand. He leans forward, trying to see what Jeff is reading, and Jeff obligingly closes the book, turning it so Tyler can read the cover. _Foundations of Library and Information Science._ Next to the book is a page covered in careful, neat notes. Tyler makes a disgusted noise low in his throat. 

Jeff points his pen at Tyler, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t make fun of your hobbies.” 

“I don’t have any hobbies anymore.” Since they’ve gotten to Toronto, it’s been nothing but work. Every day is a full slate of meetings for Mike, and for Tyler that means a constant stream of new information to be managed. New faces. Notes to be taken and collated and developed into bullet points and statements. Schedules to mesh. Documents to be edited, copied, distributed, and then re-edited, re-copied, and re-distributed in a never-ending cycle. All of it with the looming dread that if they fail, everything could slide back into fighting and chaos. 

Actual fighting, that is. Mike does plenty of verbal sparring. 

“You can’t work 24/7. You’ll burn out. Make yourself sick.” Jeff shakes his head. “You and Mike both, I swear.” 

“I’m fine. I like being busy.” This is true. As long as he’s busy worrying about the fate of the Union, there’s no time to worry about other things. Like how so close, but just out of reach across the border, his parents’ house might or might not still be standing. Or how Dean Lombardi still hasn’t shown up. Or how back at the Lake, Tanner is – 

Just Tanner in general. It’s nice not to have time to worry about Tanner. 

Tyler swallows hard, and Jeff gives him a look. “I _am_ fine,” Tyler insists. “Today was just a really long day.” 

Jeff pushes the book aside. “How did the meeting with – the Orange Representative go?” 

Jeff hesitated over what to call her, Tyler didn’t miss that. In his mind, he replays Mike yelling and Stevens all but storming out. “Not great.” 

Jeff winces and won’t look at Tyler straight on. “Did he throw anything?” 

“Not until after she was gone.” 

“Okay.” Jeff nods, his face solemn. “We’re going to count that as a win.” 

That’s a low bar. Even for Mike. “Did Mike know Representative Stevens? Before, I mean.” 

Jeff hesitates before answering again, and it’s frustrating, knowing he’s calculating what to tell, or not tell Tyler. “Yes.” He pauses, a trace of what looks like guilt on his face. “We both did.” 

He’s back to not looking at Tyler. Tyler leans to bring himself back into Jeff’s line of sight. “How?” 

Instead of answering, Jeff traces and re-traces the first line of letters on his page of notes, silent for so long that Tyler starts to feel guilty for asking. “You don’t have to – I mean, if it’s none of my business, you can just tell me that.” 

Jeff sighs. He puts his pen down and looks at Tyler. “Maggie Stevens is the daughter of a coach that Mike and I played for in the Orange, and then again later in the Black.” 

“Your coach’s daughter?” That’s not what Tyler was expecting to hear, but then, he’s not sure what he was expecting. 

“She and Mike were engaged. Briefly.” 

_“What?”_ The word comes out loud, and in deference to the fact that they’re in a library, Tyler lowers his voice, but repeats, no less emphatic, “What?” 

Jeff smiles at his distress, wan but amused. “It’s a very long story.” 

Tyler sits back in his chair. “Well, clearly it didn’t end well.” 

“No.” Now the guilt on Jeff’s face is clear. “No, it didn’t.” 

Tyler’s mind spins, trying to fill in the gaps. Mike and Stevens were together – before Jeff? Was Jeff what ended it? 

It’s weird to think about Mike being with someone who’s not Jeff. It’s weird to think about Mike having a personal life at all, much less one that existed prior to Jeff. To the extent that Tyler wants to think about Mike’s personal life, it seems like he should be having one with Jeff. Who else would put up with him? “So, what – Mike hates her because they had a messy breakup? Because they sure seemed like they hated each other in the meeting.” 

Jeff looks evasive again. “It’s not quite that simple, but – I guess that’s part of it.” He sighs. 

Tyler doesn’t know if that’s an I’m-about-to-convey-an-important-life-lesson sigh, or a don’t-ask sigh. Sometimes with Jeff, it’s hard to tell. “Is that why you didn’t want to be there? Because she’s Mike’s ex?” 

The pen taps against the table. “I didn’t want to be there because it would have made Mike uncomfortable.” Jeff pauses, corrects himself, “More uncomfortable.” 

“So you don’t hate her as much as Mike?” 

Jeff’s shoulders hunch. His eyes are down on the table. For someone as tall as he is, he has a way of making himself seem smaller. “I don’t hate her at all. That’s the problem.” 

Tyler frowns. “I don’t understand.” 

Jeff’s mouth opens; he seems to grope for what words he wants. “At the end of the day – I think what matters most is that all three of us cared very much about John – her father. He was a good man, who’s gone now.” He pauses. His throat works. “Mike thinks there are things that happened that mattered more than that.” 

All of that is so vague that it just makes Tyler more confused, but Jeff looks so exhausted, he feels like a dick for having pressed the issue at all. “I’m sorry.” 

Jeff doesn’t answer. His expression is distant. 

Tyler shifts in his chair. He makes his voice lighter, trying to draw Jeff back from wherever he’d gone. “Well – I wish Mike hated fewer people in general. It would make passing this plan a lot easier.” 

Jeff’s eyes focus, and he does manage to smile at Tyler, but he doesn’t look any less tired. He sighs again. “We were never the ones who were supposed to be here.” He shakes his head. “All Mike ever wanted to do was go home. All of this – the politics, the fixing things – it should have been John. Or Dustin. It was never supposed to be Mike.” He looks at Tyler. “But they’re gone. So he’s trying.” 

 

 

For once, Mike doesn’t have any dinner meetings, so the three of them eat together, crammed around a table in the tiny kitchenette of the apartment all of them are sharing for the Assembly’s duration. Two would make it crowded. With three their elbows brush and their knees bang under the table. Add in the dog, who stays firmly pressed against Mike’s chair, hopeful head in Mike’s lap, and there’s barely room to move. 

Jeff divvies the last of the pasta among between Tyler and Mike’s plates, and then reaches behind himself to drop the pot in the sink, and take the sauce from the hot plate it’s sitting on, both of which he can reach without getting up. 

Tyler reaches for the parmesan shaker that looks very much like Mike nicked it from the legislative cafeteria. “Doan’s aide said he has time tomorrow between two and four, if you want to sit down with him.” 

“When did you talk to Doan’s people?” 

“After your meeting with Stevens.” And after his weird conversation with Jeff. Tyler glances over at him; Jeff still looks tired, his food barely picked over. 

Mike reaches around him for the bread. “I mean. I don’t _want_ to. But yeah, we should do that.” 

“I’ll set it up tonight. I have to go back up to the Assembly building later anyway – ” Tyler yawns. “I promised Zach I’d help stuff envelopes for his committee work.” 

“What did I say about working too hard?” Jeff points a fork at Mike. “Stop making him work so hard.” 

Mike’s busy buttering a roll. “I don’t make him do anything. He volunteered for this. Besides, he gets plenty of time off. Don’t you Tyler?” 

Tyler raises an eyebrow. Mike only thinks he has free time because he’s too busy to notice Tyler doesn’t. 

“You’re both hopeless.” Jeff turns and drops his plate in the sink. 

“I’m not hopeless. I’m hopeful.” Mike stabs at his plate. “I’m hopeful that I’m gonna survive this mess, and one day, get to go home. I took Arnold out to this pond today – you know the one over by that weird yellow circle sculpture thing? It’s not the same, though.” 

Tyler looks up. “High Park?” 

“Yeah.” Mike pauses. “I always forget you’re from here. You happy to be back in the city life?” 

The city doesn’t look like he remembers it. In his mind, he pictures walking the streets next to his mother, his father just ahead of him, and it’s hard to tell if it’s a memory, or the lingering fragments of a dream. He’d be happy if he were home. He’d be happy if this place felt like he remembered it feeling: the warmth of a hand on his shoulder, a sense of safety, the comfort of being loved. 

Something aching pulses in his chest. Tyler rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know. I grew up out in the suburbs, east of the border. But – ” He dreams more often of the past in Toronto. It’s hard to know whether that’s good or bad. It’s hard to put that in words. “But I guess I missed it.” 

Mike grins, oblivious. “You’re not gonna want to go back to the Lake.” 

Jeff snorts. “It hardly counts as enjoying city life if he’s only ever going back and forth between the office and here.” 

“Come on. You must get out some.” Mike frowns. “I figured you and the other aides go out and – ” He gestures vaguely with his fork. “Do stuff or whatever.” 

Tyler laughs. Mostly at the idea that he has time to go out. “You trying to get me out of the apartment?” 

Mike aims a leering grin at Jeff, and gets a glare thrown back at him for his trouble. “No,” Mike clarifies. “I just figured you’d want to meet people. Get laid or something, I don’t know.” 

Tyler feels himself blush, which makes Mike’s grin go wider. 

“Lay off him,” Jeff says. 

The whole point of coming to Toronto was not to have to think about any of that stuff. Tyler steers the conversation back towards work. “One of the aides today brought up Dean Lombardi again.” 

Mike’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. 

“There’s this assumption, gossip I guess, that we won’t finalize a transition plan until Dean is here to sign off on it.” 

Mike turns his attention back to his plate, but he’s not eating. “Our aides were saying that, or theirs?” 

“Ours.” 

“Just talk or real talk?” 

Tyler considers. “Only one person mentioned it to me directly, but I got the feeling he was repeating something his boss might have said.” 

“Two thousand miles away and everybody still assumes he’s in charge.” Mike rolls his eyes. “Hey, assuming this plan works and we end up as independent states, at least as long as he’s around, I don’t have to worry about being tapped to head the Black. Lombardi’s got that locked up.” 

Mike’s tone is flip, but he and Jeff exchange a look. 

The table falls quiet, and Tyler knows it’s going to stay quiet until he leaves, because maybe Dean and Mike talk, maybe they talk all the time, maybe they don’t talk at all, but either way, he’s not letting anything slip to Tyler. All Tyler knows is that Mike has brief phone conversations when the network is up where he never says much, and that leave him even testier than usual. He doesn’t ever say who’s on the other side of the conversation. 

The sudden quiet around the table, and the secrets that silence implies, invoke a burning irritation under Tyler’s skin. He stands. “I should head over to the Assembly building. I’ll be back in a few hours.” 

“Sure,” Mike says. 

“Don’t work too hard,” Jeff adds. But both of them sound distracted. 

The last thing he see before he slips out, is Mike raising his glass in mock salute. “Here’s to getting this fucking plan finished and passed.” He swallows the liquid. His eyes are on Jeff the whole time. “Because I sure as hell don’t want to have to do this again.” 

 

 

For all it’s supposed to accomplish, the final version of the plan is not very long. 

Eight lines to formalize the Union’s abdication of power. Four to announce a dissolution. Thirty brief paragraphs to describe the borders of the states the Union will splinter into. A handful of pages with language ordering a cessation of hostilities, and declaring that the formation of laws and government within those thirty states shall be decided by the individual states themselves as an internal matter. 

The rest consists of pages for the signature and witness of each member of the Assembly, and a very long appendix of maps. 

This is the plan that the Players spent the last month arguing over. This is the plan that will be presented to the full Assembly to be put to a vote one week from today. 

Tyler runs a finger across the cover sheet, tracing the letters of the heading. This is the plan for what everything will look like. It hardly feels real. 

“It’s done,” Mike says. “I don’t know if it’s any good, but at least it’s done.” He stares at the stack of slim binders in front of him, each with its neatly bound and collated copy of the plan, as if the pile is something alive. As if it might bite. 

Tyler stares at it, too. “You think it’s going to work?” 

Tyler’s not even sure if he just means the vote, or if he means any of it. All of it, and Tyler wants him to say something that will convince him that it will. Something that reveals how what they’ve done here is important. He wants Mike to say that he knows what’s going to happen next, and whether the plan will pass or not. He wants Mike to talk about what will happen if the plan doesn’t get enough votes to pass. He wants Mike to say what happens if it does – what the next step is. He wants Mike to reel off how they’re going to start doing the things that are actually laid out in this plan. How all these new states will mark their borders. How all these new leaders will be found. 

Mike doesn’t answer; he hasn’t moved. 

“Mike?” 

Mike blinks. He divides the stack in two. “Let’s get these handed out. I’ll take the Players. You take everybody else.” 

Tyler pulls the stack towards him uncertainly. Mike’s eyes are down. He’s already standing, edging to the door, like if he can just keep moving, just keep focusing on the pragmatic questions, he won’t have to think about anything else. Tyler knows that feeling. But seeing it on Mike’s face doesn’t make him feel any more confident. 

“You get this in front of the reps, okay? Don’t settle for ditching it with an aide. I want these fuckers to have no excuse for not reading it.” 

“Mike,” he tries again. “Seriously. Do you think it’s going to pass?” 

Mike’s words falter, and his movements slow. For a moment, he looks nakedly uncertain in a way Tyler hasn’t seen all month. Tyler wishes that he hadn’t asked. He turns his back, reaches for his coat. 

“I don’t know,” Mike says. “But if it doesn’t, it’s not because we didn’t try.” 

At the door, they part ways. Mike heading towards the other Players’ offices. Tyler back towards the main Assembly building. 

As Tyler crosses the park, it’s hard to shake the fear that they’re doing all of this for nothing. Tyler tries to imagine how a handful of bound pages could make a real difference in how anything is going to be run. It feels like surely this must require something more – the signature of someone knowledgeable. The approval of someone with authority. Maybe it would feel more real if Dean were here – but, Tyler thinks sourly, he’s not. 

Tyler grips the stack tighter. He doesn’t even feel qualified to be carrying this stuff around. Maybe he should have stayed at the Lake, where no one was asking anything of him more complicated than to learn to use a spanner wrench. 

Except for Tanner. That was plenty complicated. 

But who knows if Tanner’s even still at the Lake. What if he left? 

Tyler’s gripped by a fear so sudden and cold he stops short. He’s still midway between the Players’ office and the Legislative buildings, surrounded by the gray and barren park, but instead of his surroundings, he sees the blasted cityscape of 

Manchester, the dead-eyed fighters in Hamden. He hears the sound of bullets whizzing past him in Chicago, and the brittleness of Katrina’s voice. Most clearly, he pictures Tanner coming out of that dark prison transport van, with a purple bruise blooming on his cheek, and his eyes red, and the way his hands shook, even long, long after they’d left the city. 

He makes himself start walking again. The wind is kicking up dust, making his eyes water. All around him, the ground is blasted so raw that even in the spaces where the cement and asphalt has cracked and crumbled enough to reveal earth, the surface is bare. 

He shifts the stack in his arms again. Whatever happens here, it’s going to be a hell of a lot of work to get anything to grow. 

 

 

Tyler leaves his most intimidating deliveries for last. But when the stack of documents he’s holding has dwindled to just two copies, he can’t put off the inevitable any longer. He straightens his collar and smooths back his hair before knocking on Representative Stevens’ door. 

She answers the door for him herself and waves him towards a chair. She doesn’t look quite as severe as she did in the meeting with Mike. Her hair is loosely pulled back, and when she smiles at him, she looks just as tired as everybody else in Toronto. “Hello, Tyler. This is the final draft?” 

Tyler pauses over her use of his name, hands it over, nodding. 

Her fingers trace down the cover sheet. She looks at it, turning it sideways to study the binder’s thinness. “I’m guessing I won’t be pleasantly surprised by what’s in here?” 

Tyler swallows. “Representative Richards wants to focus on more big picture, structural elements – he decided against adding any guidelines for infrastructure or cross-province support to the transition plan.” Tyler doesn’t add that it took them a month of arguing just to get this much. 

She studies his face closely, wide, dark eyes drinking him in. “What does that mean to him – the big picture?” 

Her voice is carefully soft, curious. She makes it sound like such an innocent question. 

She’s not going to catch him off guard again. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before replying. “The Unionists want to preserve the Union as a single entity. The Players are proposing to break up into separate states. That’s Representative Richards’ big picture. How many states there’ll be. How they’ll be divided.” 

Her mouth curves at the hesitant note in his voice. Dropping her eyes to the page again, she asks, “He didn’t consider the Hamden compromise?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “Representative Richards doesn’t think it’s feasible to have to have one person head the entire Union. Even if they are elected. He thinks multiple states will be more stable.” 

Stevens looks up, surprised. Eyebrows up like she’s about to laugh. “More stable? He honestly thinks thirty independent states would be more stable? Or that we could even survive like that?” 

Tyler shrugs. “I think he’s willing to try to find out.” 

She sighs, looking down at the papers again. “Well. I suppose getting him to listen to me about this was a long shot.” She turns a page, eyes scanning the words. 

Tyler watches her. “Are you going to approach the Unionists?” 

She looks up. 

“About water distribution, I mean.” Tyler shifts in his seat. “I mean – if the Players’ plan doesn’t pass, and we all have to go back to the drawing board – ” He trails off. 

She’s back to watching him with that careful attention. “Do you think it’s not going to pass?” 

Tyler thinks it would take a miracle. “I’m just an aide,” he says instead. 

She smiles like she can read all the things he’s not saying from his face. Then she straightens, fingers lacing together on the desk in front of her. “Horn has endorsed parts of what we want – but McCarthy won’t sign on, and without him – ” Her shoulders lift in a small, fluid shrug. 

Without McCarthy, she’s got nothing. Mike was right. 

Lightly, she asks, “Do McCarthy and Richards talk?” 

“Do they talk?” Tyler stalls. “No.” That’s not any big secret. Mike and the Unionists – there’s no love lost there. But her questions are all too carefully casual. She’s trying to get something out of him, he just doesn’t know what. 

“But Richards is the de facto head of the Players’ faction. Surely he needs to talk to the head of the Unionists.” She pauses. “Unless there’s someone else coming in to run things?” 

There it is. 

Stevens wants to know if Dean Lombardi is going to make an appearance in Toronto. Tyler thinks: _yeah. You, me, and everybody else._

Tyler smiles politely. “Who is it you’re concerned about having access to water?” 

She takes the subject change in stride. “The cities. Getting enough water and food has been an issue. Philadelphia and New York aren’t nearly as – ” she pauses, “ – definitively pro-Union, let’s say, as the surrounding areas. And while the west is relatively well supplied because it stayed warmer out there, we on the east coast have to import everything. It can get complicated. And expensive. But if we can’t continue to import food and clean water, people will die.” Her hands smooth the pages of the plan in front of her. “That’s why I don’t understand how Mike can think thirty independent states will work.” 

Tyler shifts in his seat. “I think the Players are assuming there’ll be friendly trading relations among the states.” 

She drops her chin in her hand and studies him. “And why would they assume that?” 

He gets the feeling she knows the answer as well as he does. “They’re also assuming the new states will all be run by guys who played together.” 

She smiles, still watching him, carefully painted nails drumming a slow rhythm along her cheek. “I suppose I just wanted to see if you’d come right out and say it, or if you’d try to bullshit me.” 

Her tone is low, almost flirtatious, and all Tyler can think is that Mike and this woman were together. Mike almost _married_ this woman. He feels a blush climbing up his skin. “I try not to bullshit people. I’m not a very good liar.” 

“Well. Give it time.” She straightens. “And give Representative Richards my regards, will you?” 

A clear dismissal. Tyler stands. “Yes, ma’am.” 

He makes it almost all the way to the door. He really does. Just one more step and he’d be out the door, out of her office, away from her weary smile. But there’s something gnawing at him. Representative Stevens is just as sly and calculating as everybody else here. She probably has a million different reasons for doing what she’s doing, and Mike would no doubt skin him alive if he knew Tyler was saying one more word to her than absolutely necessary. 

But she’s also right. 

Tyler stops. She right about Mike’s plan. She’s right to be thinking about what people actually need, and how to get it to them. She’s right. Tyler sighs, and turns back to face her. 

She’s watching him, curious. No doubt wondering why Tyler’s not already gone. 

Tyler swallows, and sighs, and meets her gaze. “McCarthy and Horn don’t like each other.” 

Before everything changed, Cedric McCarthy was on the Executive Council of the Union government. One of the men appointed to shape and direct the destiny of the entire nation. One of the elite, who had been entrenched in power for as long as Tyler could remember. 

But he was also on the board of the company Tyler’s father designed for. He was a regular at the Christmas parties and Spring Galas of Tyler’s youth. Events Tyler mostly remembers not for brushing shoulders with great men, but rather for the strangling feel of the jacket and tie he was forced into, the tacky feeling of his curls plastered to his head, as tame as Tyler’s mother could manage to make them, and the interminable boredom of the how the adults never seemed to run out of things to say to each other. 

Tyler remembers McCarthy as old and gray – even back then. He remembers he wore suits that seemed old-fashioned, and walked with a cane topped by a lion’s head. He’d let Tyler touch it once, when he was young enough to be bold enough to ask. Tyler remembers tracing the sharp point of one silver fang. 

Gordon Horn had never risen to quite the same heights – but he moved in the same set. 

Representative Stevens is frowning at him now. “They don’t act like they dislike each other.” 

Because it’s insider bullshit. A civil war both of them are too decorous to let show to outsiders. Tyler’s face feels hot. He almost just leaves without saying anything, because he’s going to sound ridiculous. Gossip always sounds ridiculous when it’s repeated to outsiders. And although he doesn’t know much about Representative Stevens, he knows she is an outsider to the ways of the class he’s about to talk about. It’s there in the way she carries herself. It’s there in the way she carries her own bag. 

Tyler clears his throat. “In like, 1998, Gordon Horn’s wife threw a Christmas party on the weekend that the McCarthys always threw theirs.” 

Stevens stares at him. “You’re kidding.” 

Tyler shakes his head. “No. Mrs. McCarthy was pissed. They’d been having that Christmas party for like twenty years. So Mr. McCarthy – that spring he ran against Horn for the Country Club’s treasurer position. And he won. Gordon Horn had been treasurer for thirteen years before that. It was a pretty vicious campaign.” 

She’s looking at him like he’s insane. “I imagine it was.” 

“Anyway. The point is that they hate each other. They’ve always hated each other. It’s petty shit, but it’s – ” Tyler searches for the right word. “Entrenched. You should tell McCarthy you don’t like Horn. Offer to kick Horn off as one of the sponsors. McCarthy won’t actually have you follow through, because he wants to be seen as above all that. But he wants you to offer.” 

Her skeptical expression has faded. She looks almost impressed. “No chance you want to come work for me, I suppose?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “No, I work for Mike. But – I just think what you’re trying to do is important.” 

Her eyes are very sharp looking at him. “How do you even know any of this?” 

There’s no way he couldn’t know. He was surrounded by it. He breathed it. Tyler shrugs. “This is where I grew up.” 

 

 

The final copy of the plan goes to McCarthy himself. 

As he draws closer to the part of the building that houses McCarthy’s office, the hallways become much grander. The industrial tile of the new additions gives way to the original marble. The ceilings rise. The windows become arched, and even the art looks statelier, grand tableaus of battle and dark oil portraits of stone-faced men. 

McCarthy’s office is at the very end of the hall. Approaching it, Tyler takes a breath, trying to gather himself; it feels like approaching a monolith. 

McCarthy is the only remaining member of the Union’s Executive Council who isn’t missing or dead or in custody somewhere. He weaseled out of that by cooperating with the transition process – or, at least making people believe he’s cooperating with the process. 

But he is here, at the very least providing lip service to the idea that the Union is accepting this transition, with McCarthy leading the way. Because he’s a political creature. The very first and last thing McCarthy is, is a survivor. 

To McCarthy, they are all wayward lambs he’s shepherding back to the fold. If he can preserve them, and their labor, and their usefulness, while getting them back into the corral, all the better. But if they insist on remaining apart – then McCarthy can just as easily be a wolf. 

Tyler swallows and enters. 

Unlike most of the offices, McCarthy’s is guarded by an outer chamber staffed by a secretary. Tyler makes his way deliberately up to her desk. “I have an appointment with Representative McCarthy. To deliver the transition plan?” 

The secretary points without looking up. “You can leave it in his inbox.” 

“I’m supposed to deliver it to him. I have an appointment.” Of all his deliveries today, McCarthy is the only one who required an appointment, and Tyler intends to keep it. 

She finally lifts her head to look at him, then flicks a finger towards the chairs. “Then you can wait.” 

Tyler sits. He glares at the secretary for a moment and grips the binder he’s holding more tightly. It’s only the final draft of the transition plan, after all. Only the plan for how they’re all going to be governed for the rest of their lives. You know, nothing _important._

But she can’t hear his thoughts and doesn’t look his way. Tyler loosens his grip and wipes at the clear plastic cover with his sleeve, trying to remove any trace of fingerprints he might have left, and settles in to watch the steady stream of aides come and go from the outer portion of the office. 

Someone – and after a beat Tyler recognizes him as the aide who had shown up to harass him in the break room – finally pokes his head out of the inner office and asks the secretary, “Has anyone shown up from Richards’ office?” 

Tyler stands. “That’s me.” 

Emmett-Everett-or-possibly-Atherton looks Tyler up and down. He has on the same caliber suit. He has the same dumb hair, and he makes a face like he’s not sure Tyler can be trusted not to track mud in on the carpet. “Anybody shot your boss yet?” 

Clearly he’s cockier when he’s on his own turf. Tyler gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Not yet.” 

“Councilor McCarthy is ready for you.” He stands aside to allow Tyler in. He announces into the room, “Mr. Toffoli from Representative Richards’ office.” Then he closes the door, leaving Tyler alone with McCarthy. 

_Representative McCarthy_ , Tyler silently corrects, but he decides against picking a fight right in the heart of the dragon’s den, and the aide is already gone. 

Cedric McCarthy receives him seated behind a massive desk. His appearance is everything that Mike’s is not. His gray hair is combed neatly into place. His hands rest lightly on the desk in front of him, nails fastidiously clean. The tailored sleeves of his suit slip back just enough to reveal a flash of cufflink. Even this late in the afternoon, his tie is still meticulously straight, capped by a perfect Windsor. 

McCarthy does not stand; he’s so still he doesn’t even seem to be breathing, but his watery blue eyes track Tyler’s progress towards him, the sounds of Tyler’s footsteps lost in the thickly-carpeted floor. 

Tyler takes a deep breath. He extends the binder towards McCarthy. “This is the final draft of the Players’ proposed transition plan.” 

McCarthy accepts the document without a word, placing it in front of him on the leather-covered surface of his desk. He withdraws his reading glasses, settles them on his nose, and proceeds to look carefully over the title page. Then he opens the binder. His eyes move slowly and deliberately across each line of the first page. 

The plan may not be that long, but if McCarthy’s planning on reading every line, and reading them as slowly as he is the first page, then they’re going to be in here awhile. Tyler is uncertain how long he’s supposed to stay – until McCarthy dismisses him? Until McCarthy finishes? Is he supposed to interrupt to ask McCarthy if he can go? Is he just supposed to leave? 

Tyler decides to smooth out his expression; he tries to look patient. Implacable. If McCarthy wants to read the whole thing, Tyler can wait. And he can look like it’s no big deal for him to wait. Having been a hockey player once, Tyler’s sat through whole video sessions sleeping with his eyes open. This is nothing. 

But while McCarthy reads, Tyler’s attention begins to drift around the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he studies the books that line the walls. His eyes wander over the embossed titles. Each shelf is lit by soft lamplight. There’s not a speck of dust. 

Beyond the desk, a tufted leather sofa and matching chairs are drawn up around a low table. A gleaming silver tea service catches and refracts the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window. 

Tyler’s throat is dry, and he resists the urge to cough, but his nerves are getting to him. What if he was just supposed to hand the plan to McCarthy and walk out? What good is going to come of staying? What if McCarthy isn’t reading at all, but silently laughing at him? Tyler feels beads of sweat gathering and sliding down the small of his back. He shifts, just a little, just trying to ease his stiffness, and maybe some of his nerves. 

Without looking up, McCarthy gestures towards the grouping of chairs and sofa. “Please, sit.” 

Tyler freezes, unsure what to say. “Thank you,” he finally murmurs and retreats to sink into one of the leather chairs. 

After a beat, McCarthy rises. He joins Tyler, taking a seat on the sofa. He removes the reading glasses, folding them and sliding them into his jacket pocket. He leans back, arm resting along the back of the sofa. And after what feels like a prolonged amount of settling, his eyes finally focus on Tyler’s face. “Are you related to Peter Toffoli?” 

Tyler startles. He sits up straighter. “He’s my father. Sir.” 

“Your father?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

McCarthy pauses, squinting at him. “You look like him.” 

Tyler’s not sure how to answer that. “Yes, sir.” 

McCarthy inclines his head. His eyes are a rheumy, faded blue. “And you said your given name was…” 

“Tyler, sir.” 

“Tyler,” he repeats. “And what do you think of the Players’ plan, Tyler Toffoli?” 

McCarthy’s voice doesn’t have any of the careful hedging that Representative Stevens’ did. He only sounds curious. 

Tyler hesitates. “I’m not authorized to speak on Representative Richards’ behalf, sir.” 

McCarthy smiles, a thin curl that seems to make his lips disappear into his face. His eyes remain on Tyler like he’s expecting something more. 

The clock ticks in the quiet. 

Tyler breaks the silence. “I’m – just an aide, sir. I can’t – ” 

“Yes, and a good one, I imagine,” McCarthy cuts him off. He shifts, leaning forward to take first a paper doily and then a delicate white cup from the tea service, placing these carefully on the bit of the table closest to him. “You shouldn’t underestimate what aides do, Mr. Toffoli. I’m sure I’m supposed to be off meeting with someone this evening, although god knows who, or where. But soon enough an aide will come along to make sure I get there.” He glances at Tyler, teapot hovering over a second cup. “Will you take tea?” 

Tyler’s nerves are making his mouth dry. “Yes,” he says, uncertainly. “Thank you.” 

McCarthy pours for him then settles back into the embrace of the sofa, cup and saucer cradled in his hand. He shakes his head slowly. “Peter Toffoli’s son working as an aide to Mike Richards. What a world.” A spark of amusement lights his eyes. Then he raises his tea to lips and his expression is hidden. 

Tyler glances down at the cup he’s holding, stomach abruptly too unsettled to contemplate drinking. 

McCarthy sits up again. The cup and saucer are set down with a soft clink. He pushes a plate of cookies towards Tyler – delicate, sugared wafers that Tyler recognizes, but hasn’t seen in years. “Have one, will you? They’ll just go to waste otherwise. Sugar does terrible things to my digestion these days.” 

Tyler reaches out cautiously and takes one between two fingers. “These are – I didn’t know they still made these.” A memory floods back of shopping with his mother. The smell of a bakery. Roasting coffee and fresh-made bread. The lure of the glass case, and the treasures it held – 

“Ah, yes. Well, you can still find some nice things if you know where to look.” McCarthy pauses. “And how to barter.” 

Tyler places the wafer on the saucer alongside his cup, untasted. 

McCarthy smiles again. His legs are crossed, his fingers knitted loosely around one bony knee cap. “Now, I believe you were going to tell me your opinion of the Players’ plan?” 

Tyler doesn’t remember agreeing to that, and he’s not going to be bribed into admitting something he shouldn’t for the price of a few sugar cookies. But it’s unclear what exactly McCarthy is trying to get him to say. 

McCarthy’s been here forever. He knows everyone – if he wanted an opinion on the plan, there are literally dozens of people around more qualified than Tyler that he could ask. And given his connections, he probably knows more about what went on in the meetings that produced this plan than Tyler does. 

The only thing McCarthy doesn’t know is Tyler. Tyler frowns. Which means McCarthy doesn’t want to know Tyler’s opinion to help shape his own feelings about the plan. McCarthy probably made his mind up about this plan months ago. He wants to know Tyler’s opinion about the plan to shape his opinion of _Tyler_. 

But Tyler still doesn’t know why. 

Tyler studies the dark surface of the wooden table, avoiding McCarthy’s eyes. He’s been here a month, but he’s still not good at this. He doesn’t know how to lie without sounding like he’s lying. He doesn’t know how to make himself sound like he believes something he doesn’t. 

So instead, he tells the truth. “I think it’s a decent plan,” Tyler says slowly. “But, I don’t know if it goes into enough detail about how it will accomplish what it sets out to do, and because of that, I have concerns that it might not get the support it needs to pass.” 

McCarthy lifts an eyebrow. 

Tyler’s not telling him anything he doesn’t already know. “It’s a decent plan,” Tyler repeats. “And the Players are united behind it, but they don’t have enough allies among the Independents, and they definitely don’t have them here.” Tyler lifts one shoulder in a shrug. He means among the Unionists. He means from McCarthy. “Without support from at least one of those places, it’s just a nice idea that’s dead in the water.” 

“An acute observation.” McCarthy sips his tea. He sounds surprised, but not unpleased, as though Tyler is a dog that has unexpectedly pulled off some trick. 

Tyler’s jaw tightens. 

“Richards and his ilk are very good at blowing things up, and not very good at putting them back together.” McCarthy glances at Tyler, and seems to notice his stiffness. “Don’t get me wrong – Richards has been remarkably successful in rallying the support of his fellow former hockey players, especially given his – ” McCarthy hesitates, “ – _peculiar_ proclivities. But we are operating under a very precarious ceasefire. And a resumption of hostilities would no doubt result in the rest of the east falling out of Union control – ” 

This startles Tyler into jostling his tea. It’s the bluntest admission of weakness he’s heard one of the Unionists make. 

McCarthy nods at his surprise. “Yes. I’ve never been one to advocate for denying the inevitable. But you can no doubt then comprehend why a clear path forward in our transition negotiations is imperative to someone like me.” 

McCarthy pauses again, allowing his words to sink in. “History teaches us that this is where is the real struggle begins, and Johnson and Marshall would both certainly appreciate aspects of our situation as familiar. But while I find myself wedded to the idea that a path out of the woods is essential for all of our continued well-being, I find myself – unconvinced, shall we say – what exactly the direction and destination of that path should be.” 

McCarthy stops speaking. In the silence, the clock ticks. If he’s waiting for Tyler to say something, Tyler has no idea what it is. 

“Perhaps, Mr. Toffoli, I need to express myself more bluntly.” McCarthy inclines his head. “What do you believe is our path forward?” 

He’s trying to bait Tyler into something. Tyler just doesn’t know what. “Why are you asking me?” 

McCarthy leans back into the embrace of his seat. “You may be unaware of the more – political – aspects of your father’s work. He was, shall was say, a great consensus builder. I am deeply curious to know if any of that instinct has been passed down.” 

Just thinking about his dad in the same room with this man makes Tyler’s throat feel tight. And underneath that is the cold, creeping feeling that his father left something hanging, something undone. Something that people want Tyler to explain, and in his head, Tyler adds Cedric McCarthy to the list of people who want information about his father, but aren’t willing to say why. Tyler swallows. “I don’t know what my father would have advocated for.” 

“No?” 

“I haven’t spoken to him since before the war,” Tyler spits. “If that’s what you’re trying to find out.” 

McCarthy waves this away, frowning. “My apologies for dragging him into it, I had no intention of stirring up unpleasant memories. I mean it when I say I am interested in what _you_ have to say.” 

Fine. Two can play at this game. Tyler straightens and adopts his best classroom tone. “Then while I _appreciate_ your earlier point about the essential role and perspective of Assembly aides, I can’t imagine that you are polling all of us. So, then why are you asking me?” 

“You’re a very bright young man, Mr. Toffoli.” McCarthy smiles his thin, lizard-lipped grin again. “But I think maybe you overestimate the number of people who can, let’s say, see and discuss both sides rationally.” 

That is a rare commodity here at the Assembly, McCarthy’s not wrong about that. Tyler relaxes, just a little. The cup of tea is warm in his hands. It feels weird to be here, discussing these things with Cedric McCarthy – in this grand room all filled with leather and mahogany, and books and china cups. But, Tyler supposes, these conversations have to happen somewhere. And someone has to have them – so if not them, then who? 

Tyler clears his throat. “When I was in Chicago recently, I met people there who weren’t getting their basic needs met – food, warm clothes. I’ve seen cities that have been – leveled. But there are people still there, and they need food. Water. A warm place to sleep. People need those things, even after a revolution.” 

McCarthy is watching him more closely now. “I believe that’s the girl from the Orange’s tack. What’s her name?” 

“Representative Stevens.” 

“Stevens, yes. So you think including more infrastructural details could garner your plan more support?” 

It’s hard to tell from his voice how he feels about the statement, Tyler feels abruptly more uncertain. “Why? What do you think?” 

McCarthy doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches down, hooks a finger on the edge of the platter of cookies, and pulls it towards him. His hand hovers over them until he spots a broken one. “Our nation – ” as Tyler watches, McCarthy’s fingers carefully shepherd the two pieces of the broken cookie away from the others, “ – is broken. And your plan –” He presses one deliberate fingertip into the wafer, and one of the halves snaps into quarters, “ – creates many smaller –” another press, another break, “ – pieces.” 

“And the problem with that – ” The pieces are so small now, they stick to his fingers. McCarthy flicks them free, rubbing his fingertips together fastidiously. “Is that some people are left with just crumbs.” 

He lifts his eyes to Tyler’s. “It leaves everyone scrabbling over scraps, and doesn’t give anyone anything new to invest in that will not come at the cost of their neighbor’s loss.” 

Tyler stares at the pulverized wafer on the plate between them. “Then you’re voting against the Players’ plan. You want it to fail.” 

“I don’t want anything to fail, Mr. Toffoli.” His eyebrows draw together and his expression clouds. “As I tried to make clear earlier, my priority is that we all move forward together. I want progress. And no matter what you might think, I have not yet decided how I will vote. Although – and here is a free piece of advice for you to take back to your boss – when you’re dealing with amateurs,” he pauses, “no offense intended, of course. You never want to be the first to present an idea. The further into the process people get, the more likely they are to accept something out of sheer exhaustion.” 

McCarthy’s voice makes it sound like he knows a great deal about exhaustion, and Tyler considers for a moment the number of hours McCarthy must have spent inside these walls, having similar conversations in similar rooms. Maybe the exact same room, with the same dim lights and muted sounds. Maybe the same exact advice. 

“In my studied opinion, the easier path forward is – ” McCarthy reaches down and picks a new, whole wafer from the plate, “ – to start with something brand new.” 

Tyler doesn’t associate any kind of newness with the Union. As far as he’s concerned, it’s always been old men, old ideas, and the same recycled hypocritical morality bullshit. “You really think it’d be easier to just – make something new up?” Tyler shakes his head. “You can’t just flip a switch and get a clean slate like that.” 

He got a little too vehement there, and now McCarthy is watching him, one eyebrow up. 

Fuck it. Tyler doesn’t drop his eyes. 

McCarthy holds the wafer up, turning it back and forth as if it were a coin, and he’s allowing Tyler to admire both sides. “What you’re forgetting is that _that_ is exactly what we did the first time.” 

Tyler freezes. He takes a sip of tea to try to cover his uncertainty. 

McCarthy watches him over the rim of the cup, not fooled at all. His smile returns. “Take the city of Chicago that you seem to care so much about. The beating heart of the Red.” He tosses the wafer back onto the plate and wags a finger at Tyler. “It was Guy Laurence who came up with the idea of naming the provinces after colors. Did you know that?” 

Tyler shakes his head, mute. 

“He was a genius, you know why?” McCarthy waits for Tyler to shake his head again. “When I say Chicago, or Illinois, a man my age has a thousand ideas of what that means. Blues music. Lincoln’s cabin. The great fire. Even deep dish pizza – ” Each word is sharp, carefully enunciated. “But if I say ‘the Red’ – well then that is something entirely new. That’s whatever I want it to be.” 

The hand that was pointing at Tyler turns over, palm up, beseeching Tyler for understanding. “What are the borders of the Red, but where we tell them to be? What is the culture of the Red, but what we say it is? And the real magic, Mr. Toffoli, is that to men your age, there will only ever be the Red, and Illinois will be a footnote in history. An old man’s dream.” 

Tyler sets his tea cup down and pushes it away. “Just because you change the name of something, doesn’t mean you erase what it was.” 

McCarthy’s smile comes slower this time. “You’d be surprised what we can erase. Memories are so short these days.” His eyes seem so sharp now. “Take the city we’re in right now. It was one thing last month. Now it is two things, and perhaps in two months time, it will some unknown number of entirely new things. Razed.” He pauses. “Reborn.” 

“It doesn’t work like that,” Tyler repeats, adamant, but no longer quite sure who he’s trying to convince. “There are records of things. And maybe some people won’t remember, but some always will. Some of us have history here.” 

“Some of us do,” McCarthy agrees. He straightens and waves a hand. “In any case, I had not intended to waste your time with the philosophical ramblings of an old man. I merely wanted to make it clear to you that I have not yet decided whether to support the Players’ plan.” He is staring at Tyler now, leaning forward, neither blinking nor looking away. “I wanted to make it clear that I value your input, Mr. Toffoli.” 

Tyler feels pinned in place, an insect under glass, a deer in sights. “I should be getting back.” 

“Of course.” McCarthy stands. He extends his hand to Tyler. 

Tyler shakes his hand. McCarthy’s is cool. Dry. 

Tyler starts to let go, but McCarthy doesn’t release his hand. “But before you go, I’d like to do you a favor.” 

A prickle of cold warning climbs Tyler’s spine. “What sort of favor?” 

McCarthy releases Tyler’s hand and walks to his desk. He retrieves something from the top drawer and holds it out to Tyler. A small manila packet. “This is a border pass. Naturally, they’re very selective of who they give them to. But it will allow you to cross into Union-held territory.” He pauses. “Which means you could, if you like, go home.” His eyes lock onto Tyler’s. “Go see if it’s still everything you remember.” 

Tyler takes the packet with a shaking hand. He could go home. He could see the house. He could go see if – 

“And I would ever so much appreciate,” McCarthy continues, his voice a long, smooth curl, “that if you do, you’ll come back and tell me all about it.” 

Tyler stares at him. McCarthy’s blue eyes are still on him, dark and sharp. 

There’s a loud rap on the door. 

McCarthy brightens. “Ah. And here is that faithful, all-important aide I was telling you about.” He winks at Tyler, looking for all the world once again like a harmless and slightly absent-minded old man. He calls out for the aide to come in. 

Tyler is staring at the packet in his hands. His mind is far away, already back in Scarborough, remembering old bus routes, intersections. His heartbeat speeds, and he’s stuck utterly dumb with surprise over what he’s holding, and that saves him – because when he lifts his eyes, the aide standing in the doorway is Wayne. 

His hair is cut, his shoes are polished. He’s wearing a suit and tie, but it is unmistakably Wayne Simmonds standing in the doorway. “Representative McCarthy, you have a meeting in the east wing.” 

Tyler already looks dazed, he can hardly look more so. 

“Yes, yes.” McCarthy waves Wayne in. “Come here for a moment, Wayne, I want you to meet Tyler Toffoli. He works in Representative Richards’ office.” 

All Tyler can do is stare. Wayne crosses the space between them and holds out his hand. “Wayne Simmonds,” he says, without even a glimmer of surprise in his eyes or hesitation in his voice. “Pleased to meet you.” 

 

 

Tyler walks out of the office in a daze. That was Wayne. That was Wayne Simmonds, working as Cedric McCarthy’s aide, and pretending not to know Tyler. 

Tyler’s feet carry him down the stairs and out the door. Wayne hadn’t looked at all surprised to see Tyler – he hadn’t even blinked. Even Wayne can’t be that good an actor, which means he knew Tyler was going to be in that office. 

Which means Wayne wanted Tyler to know he was working for McCarthy. Because McCarthy must have at least a dozen aides; if Wayne wanted to keep his presence a secret, he could have asked any of the others to remind McCarthy of his meeting. 

The world of the Assembly representatives and their support staff isn’t that big, and Tyler hasn’t seen Wayne around, and he definitely hasn’t heard anyone talking about Wayne Simmonds working for the Unionists. Which – Wayne is certainly recognizable. Which means he can’t have been here for very long. 

But he’s certainly not hiding, so word is going to get around. Which means that if Dean doesn’t already know, he will soon. But that leaves the question, does McCarthy know that Wayne sometimes also – or maybe just used to – work for Dean? 

And none of that gives Tyler any insight on _why_. 

Tyler’s head hurts. 

Outside, it’s rapidly growing dark. The path through the park was lighted at some point, but the bulbs in the lampposts have all long since burned out or shattered. 

Tyler jams his hands down in his pockets. He traces the edges of the border pass McCarthy gave him. The papers feel like they’re burning a hole against his thigh. 

McCarthy doesn’t seem like the type to give things away for free. Add that to everything he said about _not having made up his mind how to vote_ , and he has to want something from Tyler. 

The fear in the back of his mind tells him he should know what favor he’s agreeing to before he uses the pass. But the longing in his chest just says _go. Go home._

Tyler takes his hand out of his pocket. The path meanders among tree stumps. He has vague memories of this park being full of linden trees and maples, but the trees are all gone now. Used for fuel, or cut down to facilitate sightlines when the fighting reached this part of the city. 

He sighs, and before his breath is entirely free of his chest, someone falls in step next to him. Tyler startles, turns to look, and is rewarded with the white flash of Wayne’s smile. 

“Hey Tyler,” Wayne says. “How’s it going?” 

The startled shot of adrenaline makes the hair on Tyler’s arms stand up and his stomach drop. He stops short. When he can catch his breath, he bites out, “What the _fuck?_ ” And he’s probably being too loud, but the park is deserted and his heart is still racing in his chest. 

Wayne doesn’t, quite, laugh. But his face says he’s not far from it. “Still as tightly wound as ever I see.” 

Tyler glares. 

“Alright, alright. The thing back at the office was a bit of a dick move, I admit. But you gotta keep up appearances – ” 

“A dick move?” Tyler wants to throw something at him. Tyler wants to shove him. “The last time I saw you, you were _shot_. Then you disappeared without saying anything, and now you’re here? What are you doing here?” 

Wayne offers a one-shouldered shrug, as if none of this is remarkable in the least. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m working for McCarthy. You’re working for Richie. You should know how this aide thing goes.” 

“You’re working for McCarthy,” Tyler says, although he realizes at this point, all he’s doing is repeating Wayne. He takes a breath, searching for patience, for some semblance of calm, for any explanation for how what Wayne’s just said is even possible. Then he gives up, demanding, “Does Dean know you’re working for McCarthy?” 

Wayne fixes him a look full of judgment, as if he’s disappointed in Tyler. “Of course he does.” 

“And does McCarthy know you’re working for Dean?” 

“Listen, Tyler, something you’ve got to learn about this place is that everybody talks to everybody.” He looks with a strange sharpness right into Tyler’s eyes. “Information’s gotta move.” 

Tyler narrows his eyes right back at Wayne. “So you talk to Dean, then.” 

Wayne smiles, so small you’d miss it if you didn’t know him well. 

Tyler frowns. It’s like they’re playing some version of hot or cold. As if Wayne has something to say, but he won’t just come out and say it, leaving Tyler to guess. “Do you talk to Dean about me?” 

Wayne looks irritated again. “What would I say about you? That you're hanging around Toronto? Working for Richie? Anybody could tell him that.” 

Which is, Tyler realizes, Wayne’s way of saying yes. “If Dean cares so much about what’s happening in Toronto, why isn’t he here? He should be here. It doesn’t make sense that he’s not.” 

Wayne stares at him again. “He’s in the Black. He’s got his reasons. Tell you the truth, I think he’s waiting for something.” 

It’s like Wayne is trying to be infuriating. “Waiting for what?” 

Wayne watches him a moment longer. “What a good question.” 

Tyler blinks, thoughts clicking together in his head. Wayne doesn’t offer anything more, but he falls in step with Tyler when Tyler begins walking again. In a lower voice, Tyler says, “You don’t trust him.” 

Wayne’s steps crunch the gravel beneath their feet. When Tyler looks over, Wayne’s gaze is straight ahead, not giving anything away. Tyler turns his eyes back to the ground. Dean keeps secrets, sure. But Tyler has always assumed he must have good reasons for that. He’s working to help people like Wayne and Tanner and Mike and Jeff, and all the other Players Tyler knows. Why else start a whole revolution on their behalf? “If you don’t trust him, why are you working for him?” 

Wayne’s eyes narrow; his gaze sharpens. “I owe him. A lot.” He pauses, turning to look at Tyler. “You gotta be careful who you owe favors to.” 

Now it’s Tyler’s turn to hesitate. His steps come to a halt, and he twists the toe of his shoe into the gravel. “McCarthy gave me a border pass.” 

Wayne’s eyebrows lift, genuine surprise on his face. “In exchange for what?” 

Tyler shrugs. “I don’t know. He said something about caring what I thought. He made it seem like he would vote for the Players’ plan if I wanted him to.” Out loud it sounds even stranger. “But I don’t know what he wants in return.” 

Wayne looks away for a moment, his fingers drumming against his thigh. He looks at Tyler. “He wants the same thing Lombardi wants.” 

Tyler takes his hands out of his pockets to rub them together. Dean, who Wayne works for, but doesn’t seem to trust. What Dean wants is also a great unknown. Tyler starts slowly, “You said once that Dean wanted the information in a letter.” Tyler swallows. “Okay, well then what’s in it? What’s in the letter?” 

Wayne’s face is blank. “I don’t know.” 

Tyler scoffs and looks away. 

“I’m not lying to you,” Wayne insists. “I’ve never seen the letter. I don’t know who has it, or what it says.” 

Tyler’s hands twist at his sides. “But you knew enough to tell me not to tell Dean?” 

Wayne looks away again. 

“You say you’re my friend, but you won’t tell me anything – ” 

Wayne turns to glare. “I am your friend, Tyler. And I worked hard to get you and Tanner somewhere safe.” He pauses. “How is Tanner, by the way?” 

“He’s – don’t change the subject.” 

Wayne shrugs, acquiescent “Just being polite. Which I think is especially gracious of me, considering – ” 

“Yes. Okay. I’m sorry – I’m sorry that happened. I know you risked a lot to get us somewhere safe.” Tyler swallows. “But I would really like to understand what is going on.” 

Wayne gives him a rueful look. “Lombardi is also invested in your safety.” He hesitates. “But once he gets what he wants – I just don’t know if he still would be.” 

Tyler’s jaw sets. “He’s been my family’s friend for more than thirty years.” 

Wayne’s eyes narrow into that sharp look again. “So you’ve said.” 

Tyler’s jaw hurts. His chest hurts. He can feel a prickling burn starting at the corner of his eyes. He forces himself to swallow it back. Nothing feels certain anymore. He doesn’t feel like he knows anyone, anymore. And nothing is as simple as he once thought it was. Whatever the truth is, Tyler’s going to have to find it for himself. He clears his throat. “I need Union money,” he says. 

Wayne looks up, surprised by this subject change. “You’re hitting me up for cash?” 

Tyler nods, slow. “If I’m gonna cross the border, I need money.” He meets Wayne’s eyes. “Not a lot, but some.” 

Wayne watches him silently for one long minute, then he digs a wallet out of his pocket. He pulls a wad of Blue  & White bills out and offers them to Tyler. More than Tyler expected. Maybe he’s feeling guilty. “You’re gonna go then?” 

“Maybe.” Tyler tucks the money into his pocket. He darts another look at Wayne. “Thanks. Not sure how I’m gonna pay you back, but – ” 

“You can owe me one,” Wayne says. “After all, that’s what this place is all about.” 

 

 

Tyler slips away the next day, on an afternoon Mike is scheduled to be in closed-door meetings with the rest of the Players’ leadership. It’s on the calendar as a four-hour block, but in Tyler’s experience, they never last less than six. 

Which leaves him plenty of time to get across the border, get to his old neighborhood, and get back without anyone missing him. 

Ducking Jeff is easy, because Jeff spends most of his time in Toronto’s libraries, trying to avoid other people as much as possible. And once Tyler leaves the Assembly campus, it’s only a few blocks east to where the streets are blockaded by the parallel lines of cement barriers strung with barbed wire. Two sets of walls: the one to the west put up by the rebels, the one further east to the Union army, separated by a no man’s land of rubble the width of a city block. 

Each barricade has a guardhouse, and Tyler imagines that soldiers in both are watching his approach, tracking his movements with hooded eyes and long-barreled rifles. 

Tyler’s palms are slippery with nervous sweat when he presents his papers to the rebel guard. 

The guard’s eyes flick between Tyler’s face and the forms. After a moment, he scrawls something on the paper and hands them back. 

Halfway there. 

The no man’s land between the two sets of guards is barren of everything. Nothing green. No buildings left standing. No passable road. Tyler picks his way through the rubble, eyes on the ground to prevent stumbling. He can feel the gaze of both sets of guards on him, and he doesn’t want to trip. Doesn’t want to make any sudden moves. 

If they wanted to, the guards could pick him off with one easy shot. If McCarthy wanted him gone, he could easily have arranged it. Or even easier – he could have set some trap in the papers themselves, and Tyler could be arrested and disappeared just as soon as he reaches the next set of guards and hands them over. 

A cold sweat gathers at the small of his back and prickles the nape of his neck. By the time he reaches the Union guardhouse, he can feel the thump of his heart, so loud it seems like the soldier ought to be able to hear it too. 

The Union soldier takes his papers. Just like his rebel counterpart, he studies Tyler’s face. Tyler lifts his eyes and makes his face impassive. The Union soldier’s uniform is sharper; his gun a newer make, but he looks to be the same age as the guard Tyler passed moments ago. The same cold assessment in his eyes. The same calculated efficiency of many-times repeated motions in his gestures. The two look nothing alike, but based on their behavior, they could be brothers. 

The Union guard hands Tyler his papers back and waves him through, just as if this were any border within the Union, and Tyler were still wearing his PerT tags. 

He emerges not far from a bus stop, and his timing is good, because like a miracle rumbling out of the past, a bus comes just moments after he’s finished tucking his papers back into his pocket. 

Tyler spends the whole bus ride staring out the window and wondering at the magic of a thousand things he would never have noticed before. 

Shops are open. Cars, not many, but some, speed alongside the bus. Traffic lights flash green and red, and the whole world looks – untouched. 

Tyler has to swallow back the urge to grab the man sitting next to him, to yell and point and make people stop and look, because everything – the food in the stores, the blinking signs, a decorated banner celebrating the end of winter and _30% off mittens and hats!!!_ All of it is idyllic and undisturbed. 

His heart beats so hard in his chest, he feels dizzy. It feels impossible that just a piece of paper could transport him here. And that once here, the world still looks like this, and still works like he remembers it working, all the tiny pieces of civilization functioning as if nothing at all has changed. As if everything wasn’t crumbling down around them, just half a mile away. 

As they leave the city core, the apartment buildings fade into houses. The businesses thin. The sights bring a wash of memories: riding in the bus, stick clasped in his hand, bag at his feet. Or in the car, next to his father, drawing pictures on the fogged-over glass. He spots the street that holds his barber. His mother’s favorite grocery store. The bookstore he had gone to as a child. A playground that had been host to a thousand games. 

As they turn towards Tyler’s neighborhood, the houses grow larger, the expanse of yards broader, until the houses themselves are lost entirely from view. Hidden behind ancient elms, or stone walls draped with ivy. 

Tyler requests his stop based on pure sense memory, before he has even fully registered where he is. He stands at the foot of a twisting road that winds up into his old neighborhood, and after the bus leaves, everything is quiet. 

Tyler walks. A wet, green smell rides the air, the smell of moss and damp stone. Tyler walks to his house, his parent’s house, and stands for long minutes at the steps that lead up to the door. 

He looks over his shoulder, but all around him, the street is quiet; the houses are still. 

His eyes wander over the brick and wood in front of him, the graying window frames, the turrets. The house is smaller than its neighbors, but Tyler thinks the lines it draws are more beautiful. 

The front garden has run to riot, rosebushes naked and black. Exploratory runners of grass creep over the edges of the front walk. Tyler looks beyond, to the hint of white curtain showing in the window, and he can remember his mother hanging those curtains and the way the light in the front room came in delicate and diffuse. He remembers the smell of roses from the garden in a vase on the table. He remembers the sound of rain on the roof and the thud of his father’s footsteps, the shake of the door in its frame as he came in. The smell of damp newspaper that he had gone out to retrieve on a wet morning just like this one, and his face, smiling, a bead of rainwater on his nose, and the sound of his mother laughing at the sight – 

The house blurs in front of him. 

Tyler closes the distance to the front door, and raises a shaking hand to the knob. 

He hesitates, almost sick with how hard his heart is beating, then pushes. 

The door opens under his touch. Unlocked. 

Inside is chaos. 

He trips almost immediately on a floor lamp lying overturned across the foyer. Tyler steadies himself, closes the door behind him, and picks his way through the shards and scattered dirt of the two potted plants that had once flanked the front door. He tries the light switch on the wall. Nothing. 

Tyler rubs his eyes. The door to the hall closet stands flung open and its entire contents have been dragged out and scattered around the entry hall, boots and coats lying in heaps. Tyler turns, goes into the sitting room, and the cushions have been pulled from the sofas. His mother’s careful arrangement of the space annihilated by overturned furniture, legs broken and backs slit open to spill their fluffy, white insides. Ashy footprints cross the white carpet in front of the fireplace. 

Tyler rights one of the chairs. The chair where his father used to sit in the evenings. He straightens the beaded lamp shade his mother had found in a vintage shop, and brought home with the victory of discovery wide across her face. The coffee table is so cracked it won’t stand any more, one half overturned to show the scrawls Tyler had made in crayon on the underside of it when he was very, very small. 

He can’t have given more than two seconds of thought to any of these things when he lived here. They were just the simple background of his life. But now every item feels precious. Every item is a relic that Tyler needs to restore. He studies the table, he could at least drag it off to the side, get it out of the way. Then he’d be able to clean up some of this dirt. Tyler reaches for the table, and then stops. 

Stupid. He only has a few hours here. He can’t fix everything. He can’t fix anything. 

When he looks down, his hands are shaking. 

Numb, he moves into the kitchen and finds it a mess of shattered glass. The smell of rancid food permeates the air. Tyler leaves quickly, letting the door swing shut behind him. He avoids his father’s office, turning instead for the stairs. 

Upstairs, the bedrooms are in a similar state of chaos: mattresses pulled from their frames, split and punctured like they’ve been stabbed. All the pictures have been pulled from the walls, their paper backings torn away. Photographs yanked from their frames. 

He touches a torn image of his parents on their wedding day. Why would anyone destroy this? What was the point? They look horrible, lying all over the floor. He bends and gathers one photo after another, determined to save all of them, until a shard of glass hidden in the carpet bites into his finger. 

The sudden pain makes him stop. His ragged breathing is loud in his own ears. He can’t fix everything, and he can’t take it all with him. He stuffs what pictures he has in his hands into his pockets. He leaves the rest. 

In his own room, Tyler stands and turns in a circle breathing hard. Everything in here is familiar and yet looks so foreign, it’s like he’s never seen it before. His trophies have been knocked askew. Clothes pulled from drawers. A few empty CD cases are scattered across the floor. 

Tyler wipes his eyes, and finally notices that he’s crying. His face feels numb; he’s not sure when he started. Maybe since he first saw the house. 

His chest feels too hollow for sadness. It seems like he should be angry – this space was his for the first eighteen years of his life, and now it’s been violated. Turned upside down and inside out. Destroyed. He sits on the floor, pulls one of the CD cases towards him, runs his finger along the cracked edge. It’s hard to feel anything but a sense of creeping, cold numbness. 

Another tear lands on the plastic in his hands. Maybe not quite perfectly numb. Tyler scrubs at his face, then rubs the case dry with the edge of his sleeve. 

Then he stops. He turns the CD case over in his hands and picks up another. All of them are empty. He turns his attention back to his shelves. All of his books are gone. 

Tyler frowns, trying to inventory the room, to match what he sees against what he remembers. As far as he can tell – it’s just the CDs and the books that are missing. He goes back down the hall, back into his parent’s room. In the midst of the destruction, he didn’t notice at first, but the books are missing from their shelves, as well. Tyler turns, moving quickly now. He goes downstairs, and to the room he’s been avoiding. He pushes open the door to his father’s office. 

It’s empty. 

The shelves are empty. The walls are bare. The desk itself is missing, just a faded outline on the rug to show where it once stood. The computer is gone. The printer is gone, just the sad tail of a cord left plugged into the wall. Tyler turns in a slow circle, and looks, and looks again. 

He makes another sweep of the house – and it’s obvious now that he’s looking for it. There’s not a single scrap of paper or anything electronic left. Not a cookbook or a notepad. Not the VCR. Not even a pocket calculator left in one of the drawers. 

Tyler starts to shake. No one did this looking for the blueprints to some park or hospital. No one did this just because his parents were at the same parties as important people. No one did this because his father made one mistake, or had one brush with the Union go wrong. Nothing about this was random. His father worked for them, helped them, took their money, and built their prisons. 

And then, one night, almost three years ago now, his father took him and his mother and ran. Ran south, left him with Dean, and disappeared. 

Which means nothing about what happened to the house was unforeseen. None of this violence is random. 

Tyler feels his knees start to buckle and he sits before he can fall, coming to rest in the center of the bare carpet in his father’s office. The very emptiness evidence that his dad was not who he seemed. That for years and years and years, he lied. He looked at Tyler, and smiled, and lied. 

Everything that he cultivated in here, his perfect, happy family. Everything that Tyler made into cherished memories, everything that Tyler tried force his future to look like. When he dreamed about having a life, even sometimes with dread, when he thought of working after hockey. When he thought about falling in love, and what his relationship with Tanner was supposed to be, what love and a family was supposed to look like. All of it was based on lies. None of it was ever real. 

Tyler makes an unsteady gasping noise. A sick, guilty disgust curls through his guts. Because as fake as this house and all its comforts are – isn’t there some part of him that would be happy to go back to it? If he could shut out everything around him, and have his parents back and live here – wouldn’t he? 

What does it say about him, if he would? 

And what does it say if he wouldn’t? What sort of terrible son looks around this house and is angry at the man who built a life for his family here? Tyler should be angry at the outside world; he should be angry at whoever tore up the floors and put holes in the dry wall. He should hate whatever stranger ripped the picture of his mother in two. 

And he does. He hates them with a low, burning fury. But he can’t shake the idea that the foundations of this house were built on something sick. Tyler’s head pounds, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He wants out. He wants to be out of there, right now, and not look back. 

Because amidst all that confused destruction, and lying at the heart of his tangled questions, is the one sure fact he knows: that someone was in here looking – looking desperately – for something. 

And Tyler thinks he knows now what it means that McCarthy gave him that border pass, and sent him to this house. 

It means they didn’t find it. 

 

 

Tyler almost runs out of the house. He heads down the hill at a fast walk. His feet carry him towards the rink. The trip is such a familiar one that Tyler thinks he could do the whole thing blind-folded. And, in fact, he has done this walk half-blind more than once: when even snow coming down sideways wasn’t enough to keep him from wanting to skate, or when games ran late, and he had to hike back home long after dark. 

He slows in front of the rink building, gazing out at the complex of park and playfields that still surround it. At the end farthest from him, a group of kids swarm over the playground, their high voices carried in on the breeze. A few people are out, walking the paths, or with shopping bags, cutting across the park on their way to or from the cluster of stores on the main road. As he gets closer, Tyler can see the doors to the rink itself are chained shut. He cups his hands and peers in through the windows. The lights are off. The lobby, or what he can see of it, is empty. Tyler tests the doors once, but the chain is thick and fashioned tight. And the last thing he needs is to be arrested for breaking and entering in Union-held territory. 

Tyler takes a steadying breath. He studies the building. His father built it and everything around it. Every inch of it, from the slope of the roof to the patterns in the brick, is familiar, and even now, the sight of it stirs a warm feeling in his chest that not even the knowledge that his father built this place as penance for the other structures he was building, that he built it out of guilt, can fully extinguish. 

Tyler used to stand right here with Wayne, while they waited for the bus. He tasted his first alcohol here. Even more forbidden, had his first illicit wanting of boys here. His love for playing hockey was born here. He dreamed here. 

All right here, in this building, this park. 

"Tyler Peter Toffoli." The voice comes from just behind him, strong and surprised, but certain. 

Tyler turns to find a girl his own age staring at him. She is tall, her blond hair neatly pulled and pinned under a knit cap. Her arms are full of grocery bags. 

She continues to stare at him. Tyler stares back, and recognition comes slow, but it’s there – a familiarity in the aquiline slant of her nose, in her wide-set eyes, and that small heart of a mouth. Tyler blinks. “Cynthia?” 

Cynthia Tanenbaum, his long-ago classmate, stares back at him. An older version, but unmistakably her. “What in the world are you doing here?” 

Tyler shakes his head, mouth agape. “I’m working at the transition Assembly. I came over to see – ” He swallows and forces steadiness into his voice. “I came by to see the old place.” 

Her lips purse. “How did you find it?” 

“A mess,” Tyler says shortly. 

“That’s the general state of things, these days.” Cynthia pauses, studying his face, and Tyler wonders what he looks like. If he seems very different, or if she can tell he’s been crying. She blinks and says, “You’ll come back to the house with me, won’t you? We’ll have coffee.” 

As if they had just run into each other under normal circumstances. Maybe these are the new normal circumstances. “I – yes, thank you.” 

Cynthia smiles, and looks pointedly from him to the bags in her arms and back again. 

Tyler scrambles to comply. “May I – ” He makes as if to take them from her, and Cynthia allows him to unburden her with what appears to be practiced grace. 

“Me fetching my own groceries, I’m sure you’re shocked,” she says, as they walk. “But half the staff ran off the last time the lake froze, and mother isn’t very mobile these days. You understand.” She offers a brief smile. 

Tyler nods in return. The easiest way to stay calm seems to be to try not to acknowledge the strangeness of anything, and he spends the rest of their walk back to her house in the same state of vague, suspended shock. 

“Do please ignore the state of the house,” she says, crossing the threshold and directing him back towards the kitchen. “I’d make excuses but I imagine they’d all sound very self-explanatory or gauche, or both. And now, if you don’t mind making yourself comfortable, I need to check on mother. I’ll just be a minute.” 

She leaves him in the kitchen. It feels deeply disorienting to be looking at the same kitchen table he and Cynthia had eaten meals at as children, kicking each other under the table while her maid yelled that she’d better not tear her stockings, and their parents ate more peaceably in the dining room. He peeks around the corner at that very same dining room. When it wasn’t in use, they had played under the long table, or stretched out on its surface to admire the chandelier they weren’t allowed to touch, no matter how pretty the tinkling sounds it made. 

All of it is covered now, draped with broad sheets of canvas, heavy with dust. 

Tyler ducks back into the kitchen. Better not to pry. Needing to keep his hands busy, he finds the kettle; this at least, looks like it sees regular use. He puts on water for coffee. 

Cynthia reappears in the doorway. “She’s sleeping, I’m afraid. I know she’d be thrilled to see you. I could wake her – ” 

Tyler shakes his head. “Don’t, please. Not on my account.” 

Cynthia smiles, and it all feels like a very old dance. The house shabbier, and in his memories the coffee would be brought out and served to them, but the dance of manners is the same. He studies her while she puts away the groceries, then pulls out the French press and spoons in generous heaps of coffee. Her face is thinner than he remembers, too thin, maybe for her frame, but still beautiful. Her nails have been cut short and her hands are chapped, but they still move with a cultivated grace. 

She sets a saucer and cup in front of him. “You said you’re working with the Assembly?” 

Tyler nods. “I’m an aide for Representative Mike Richards. We’re working on building the transition plan.” 

Her eyebrows rise. “That sounds like very important work.” 

Tyler laughs. “Mostly I just carry papers around and fetch coffee, to be honest.” 

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her expression distant for a moment. “Mike Richards the hockey player?” Her voice has the lilt of a question, although she knows quite well who he is. Tyler is certain of that. 

“Yes.” 

She pours coffee for both of them. There’s a pause before she looks up. “I can’t tell if that puts us on opposite sides of the fence. Nowadays it’s so hard to tell.” Her tone is difficult to read. 

Tyler hesitates, turning the cup in his hands. “Well. What do you want?” 

She looks at him, surprised. “What do I want?” 

Tyler risks a smile. “How can I answer if we’re on opposite sides if I don’t know what you want?” 

She laughs, and her face turns thoughtful. “You have grown up, haven’t you?” she says. Then she sighs. “I don’t know. I suppose I just want to feel hopeful about something for a change.” 

He meets her eyes. “That sounds a lot like what I want.” 

Cynthia sips her coffee. “It doesn’t seem like it should be too much to ask, does it? But you don’t want to hear my opinions on politics. Not when you’re so important, and I know – ” her hand flutters in the air, “ – absolutely nothing, of course.” 

Tyler starts to object, but she waves her hand again, and says in what is a clear change of subject, “Well, you missed an absolute fright of a Christmas season. The Milfords threw a ‘White Christmas’-themed party the same weekend as the Harborough’s Winter Wonderland party. Mrs. Harborough got drunk and called Amaryllis Milford a copy-cat bitch. So, of course Amaryllis brings up the fact that Mrs. Harborough’s daughter – Eliza? She’s three years younger than us, do you remember her? – was pregnant by the gardener.” 

Cynthia pauses so Tyler can absorb this horror, feigned shock on her own face. “Of course she’d been rushed off to the middle of nowhere by then. Somewhere out past Kingston, the poor thing. Supposedly to visit family, but well.” She gives Tyler a significant look. 

To Tyler, her words seem rushed, even forced. As if she’s working hard to convince him these parties are still the most important part of her life. As if she wants desperately for him to ignore the dust-covered dining room, the stillness and disrepair of the house, and his own growing sense that life here isn’t as untouched as she would like him to believe. 

Tyler smiles at her, and he would like to give her this, to help her maintain the illusion, if only because they were once friends. He searches his memory for some anecdote to contribute, but his only recollection of Eliza is as mousy, brown-haired girl standing in the corner at parties. 

By the time Eliza would have come of age, all of Tyler’s attention had been on hockey. He’d started pulling away from this world, even before he really left. He manages a smile, though. “Eliza and the gardener? Really?” 

“Yes!” Cynthia’s eyes are bright. “Tyler, you’re so out of the loop. You’ll never believe who Teddy married.” 

“Lucky I have you to catch me up.” He grins, and in the moment, he means it. Even if it’s foolish, meaningless talk, it feels good to hear a familiar voice. Tyler pauses. “And you?” He glances at the long, bare fingers of her hand. 

Cynthia follows his gaze and holds up her hand as if admiring a ring that isn’t there, face unreadable. “I was married – very briefly.” She tucks her hands back in her lap. “What about you, Tyler? You have a girl in Toronto?” She pauses, looking at him sidelong. “Somewhere else?” 

“No girl,” Tyler says. He presses on before he can stop and stumble over it. “I’m queer.” 

At this, her eyebrows shoot up. “Really?” 

Tyler nods. 

She blinks. “How novel.” She hesitates, then she lifts her cup to clink gently against his. “To this brave new world, then. And all the people in it.” 

Telling her was easier than he thought it’d be, and he wants to ask her if she really means it, or if she’s just being polite. If she’s letting him believe in her acceptance, like she’s letting him believe that everything is still fine here, that life is just as easy for them as it was when he left. 

A warm feeling spreads in his chest. Even if Tyler no longer knows this world, or these people, it feels good to talk to someone who knew him and knows the world he came from. Everything’s changed but the fit doesn’t feel completely impossible. Maybe there could still be a place for him here, one day. 

Tyler feels his smile slip, and he looks down at his hands. The echo of the cold he felt earlier is still there. He’d like to help, but there’s no easy way to cut through the bullshit. And the jump from meeting one friend and having one conversation to being welcome back in a place is a big one. Especially if all they’ve done is exchange society gossip. 

Although, if Tyler’s conversation with Representative Stevens earlier this week made him realize anything, it’s that sometimes gossip can be useful. 

Tyler pauses, a thought striking him. He looks at Cynthia. “Hey,” he says, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a job?” 

 

 

Tyler makes it back to the apartment before either Mike or Jeff. He toes off his shoes and pulls the fridge open. Nothing but a bottle of ketchup and half a carton of almost-certainly-sour milk. Tyler wrinkles his nose. Hopefully either Mike or Jeff will bring back food, or he’ll have to trek back out to the Assembly cafeteria. There’s still coffee in the pot, though. He pours the last of it into a mug and sticks it in the microwave. The display is blinking – a sign that the power must have flickered earlier in the day. When it’s done, he holds mug to his forehead, letting heat seep in. 

When he closes his eyes, he can still see the debris strewn around his parents’ house. 

Mike has a handle of whiskey hidden away in the back of one of the shelves, and Tyler pulls it down and pours a generous splash into his coffee. He takes the mug back to his cot and settles into it, images of the ransacked house still lingering in his mind. He tries to think about Cynthia instead. He wonders whether or not she’ll get in touch with Representative Stevens. She said she was interested. She’d sounded like she meant it. 

He props a pillow between himself and the wall, shifting the coffee to one hand. With the other, he pulls out the torn photos he scavenged, flipping through images of his parents’ smiling faces. He pauses at a picture of himself as a toddler, perched on his father’s shoulders. 

Tyler catches his lip between his teeth, biting down until it stings. His father lied. His father built their whole life on lies. His father betrayed someone. His father did terrible, terrible things. 

And Tyler misses him so much. 

He lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud. It’d be nice to know who was in the house. Who trashed it? Were they sent by McCarthy? 

Tyler would also really love to know what they were looking for. 

He takes a sip of the spiked coffee. McCarthy has some nerve, sending Tyler to that house with no warning of what was inside, and calling it a favor. Maybe McCarthy himself wasn’t the one that ripped it to pieces, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t send the people that did. At the very least, he must have known about it. McCarthy wants something from Tyler. Something Tyler should know. Or have. And he’s willing to swing his vote in order to get it. 

Maybe it was a threat. Is he trying to scare Tyler into giving it to him? 

The carrot and the stick, all at once? 

Tyler frowns. It doesn’t matter, because whatever information McCarthy wants – Tyler doesn’t have it. He couldn’t give it to him if he wanted to. 

His mind turns in increasingly smaller circles until he finally makes himself stop. It’s stupid to be worrying about it. He should be using the time he has alone in the apartment to jerk off. Even that would be more productive. 

The sound of a key turning in the lock makes that idea a lost cause. Tyler hurriedly stuffs the photos and papers back into their envelope, tucks it under his mattress, because one thing does seem clear to him: until he figures out what McCarthy is looking for, he probably shouldn’t tell anyone else about his trip across the border. 

Jeff comes in and tosses a nod at Tyler. He has a bag of what looks like sandwiches from the Assembly cafeteria, and he holds it out to Tyler. After Tyler takes it, Jeff slides his coat off, and then before doing anything else, he crosses a day off on calendar on the wall. 

The day of the vote has been circled in red. The day after that, Mike has labeled, HOME. 

Jeff throws his coat over one of the kitchen chairs with a sigh. “How was your day?” 

“Eh.” Tyler sets the food down on the counter, pulls plates from the cabinet. He tries to sound casual. “How was yours?” 

Jeff’s glances at the counter, where the bottle of whiskey is still standing. “Pour me a slug of that, will you?” 

Tyler pours for him. He gestures at the food, but Jeff shakes his head. “I’ll wait for Mike. He shouldn’t be too much longer.” 

Tyler pushes the food containers aside. He puts both mugs on the kitchen table, and Jeff sits. Tyler takes the spot across from him. 

Jeff rubs at his temples, blowing out a long sigh. 

Tyler pushes the mug containing the whiskey closer to him. 

Jeff glances up, showing a small, rueful smile. “Thanks.” 

“Did something happen in the Players’ meeting?” 

“No, just.” Jeff pulls the mug towards himself, staring down into it. “Mike’s wound up and that makes me anxious.” He looks up and answers Tyler’s unspoken question. “He’s out with Arnold. We’ve figured out when to leave each other alone.” He raises the mug towards Tyler in a mocking toast, then drinks and makes a face. “Does adding coffee to it make it taste any better?” 

Tyler shakes his head. “Not really. Keeps me from falling asleep though.” 

“Have you finished collating everybody’s contact info?” 

Considering he spent most of the day in Scarborough, not exactly. “Not quite,” Tyler allows. 

“Better drink up then.” Jeff shakes his head. “I can’t believe the vote’s in three days. It feels like we got here yesterday. If the plan doesn’t pass after all this – ” He trails off, rubs the bridge of his nose. “It won’t be pretty.” 

Tyler grips his mug tighter, bringing it up to hide his face. The looming vote means he has three days to figure out what McCarthy wants from him, why he sent Tyler across the border to visit his old house. 

And to figure out whether to tell him. 

He watches Jeff toying with his mug. He could tell Jeff, maybe. But a gnawing concern makes him hold back. What if Jeff just sees it as him collaborating with the enemy? They’re supposed to be presenting a united front against McCarthy and everything he stands for. And Tyler’s getting favors from him. Jeff would want to know why, and Tyler wouldn’t have any answers. 

Back in Manchester none of the other players saw him as one of them. They lumped him in with management and the people in charge. And maybe Tyler even thought of himself like that. 

He takes quick sips from the mug, but if anything, the caffeine is just making him feel more anxious, and the alcohol more morose. 

He watches Jeff – bent forward over the table, his shoulders slumped like the weight of all the world is on them. Tyler knows from the stories that got told at the Lake, and from the bits and pieces that Jeff’s let slip, that bad things happened to Jeff before he got to the Lake. Things so bad that Tyler wants to believe they must have been exaggerated; things he doesn’t want to believe are true. But the story that sticks in his mind now, is that Jeff was raised in one of the Union prisons. 

One of Tyler’s father’s prisons. 

Tyler imagines telling Jeff that he went to his parents’ house today. Saying, _I went to my house and someone broke my things._ _All my family’s nice things, that I never even thought about when I had them, that my father bought with money he earned for building the place that tortured you. All of them were broken._

He wonders if the news would make Jeff happy. Maybe he’d smile, or even laugh at the knowledge that a Union ally had been brought low. 

Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just keep looking at Tyler with that dull pain in his eyes, and those tired lines around his mouth, and not do anything at all. 

Maybe that would be worse. 

Tyler imagines saying, _I feel guilty that I feel bad, and even more guilty that I don’t feel worse._

He doesn’t say that aloud, and across from him, Jeff sighs, bringing his mug up his lips again, and stares off into nothing, lost in his own thoughts. 

That’s how they sit. The silence broken only by the creak of chairs and their slow sips of whiskey, and no words are spoken at all. 

 

 

The day of the vote brings rain. 

Tyler faces the window, clears the spot his breath has fogged. 

Mike and Jeff are sitting next to each other on the office couch. All three of them silent as the last hour before the vote ticks by. 

Mike breaks the quiet. “What do you think?” 

Tyler turns around to catch Jeff’s answer. Jeff doesn’t say anything. He looks at Mike, giving the slightest turn of his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Mike says. “That’s what I think, too.” 

Jeff lifts an eyebrow. 

“I know.” Mike rubs his temples. “Fuck. Maybe I should go talk to Larson again.” He half-rises. 

Jeff catches his arm. “They’re going to vote how they’re going to vote at this point. Not anything we can do now.” 

Mike slumps back into the couch. “McCarthy and the Unionists sounded like they were leaning towards supporting it.” His voice sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “I don’t know whether to trust it, though.” 

Something cold and guilty cramps in Tyler’s stomach. He looks away. He never went to see McCarthy again, burying himself instead in last minute preparations for this vote, trying to ignore the feeling that all this is a set-piece, a charade, and what really matters is that he hasn’t given McCarthy what he wants. 

Mike sighs. “God, this would be so much easier if I could just tell people what do.” 

Jeff emits a low chuckle. “Benevolent dictator-for-life Mike Richards?” 

“Everyone hates me plenty already, thanks.” His voice grows muffled, and Tyler glances back to see his face hidden beneath his hands. “How did we get into this? I just want to be at the Lake. That’s all I ever wanted – to be at the Lake with you.” 

Jeff curls an arm around Mike’s shoulders, pulling him in. He rests his cheek against the top of Mike’s head, and whatever he says in response, it’s too low for Tyler to hear. 

Outside, the rain is coming down harder. The sick feeling in his stomach grows. 

“You know,” Jeff says, voice back at its normal volume. “If we lose the vote, we’re going to have to reconsider the Hamden compromise.” 

Mike makes a grumbling noise. “Even if a version with the compromise passed, and even if we could manage free and fair elections, nobody could do that job. Try to elect a Player and no one on the east coast would believe he was smart enough to read or sign his own name, much less run things. Put a Unionist in charge and they’d be accused of trying to put the Union back in power. And an Independent – ” Mike shakes his head. “We might as well turn the world over to chaos and cannibalism.” 

Turning back, Tyler interjects, “The Independents aren’t as bad as you seem to think they are.” 

Mike shoots him a dark look. “You’ve got a lot to learn.” 

Tyler drops his gaze. 

“Fuck, is it time yet?” Mike’s hands are back at his temples. “I hate waiting.” 

“Roll call is in twenty minutes,” Tyler answers. “We could head over there if you want.” 

Mike grabs his jacket. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Jeff stands with them, but doesn’t make to leave the office. He looks at Mike. “There’s gonna be a crowd. You mind if I stay?” 

“No.” Mike reaches out to give Jeff’s hand a brief squeeze. “No need to torture yourself. See you back here?” 

Jeff nods. 

Tyler and Mike make the walk to the Assembly building in silence. Everything that can be said, already has been. Or at least, everything Tyler’s willing to say. 

There are always secrets. 

He follows Mike as far as the outer chamber doors, and Mike leaves him there with a look that’s half nervous smile, half eye-roll. The doors close behind him. 

Tyler doesn’t get to go inside for the vote. Tyler will stand in the hall, already milling with other people’s aides, and wait. 

Even though they aren’t, for once, late, the chairs have all already been claimed, so Tyler parks himself with his back to the wall, nodding occasionally at the faces he recognizes. 

Representative Stevens comes around the corner, and on her left, is Cynthia. Tyler straightens. Cynthia takes Stevens’ bag and coat. After Stevens disappears inside the chamber, Cynthia glances around the hallway, an anxious look on her face. 

Tyler offers a small wave. 

She looks relieved when she spots him. “Hi.” 

“Hey.” 

Cynthia settles against the wall next to him. “So this is the big day.” 

“This is it.” Tyler watches her settle Stevens’ bag at her feet, look for somewhere to place the coat, give up, and reposition it in her arms. “You’re working for Representative Stevens, then?” 

The corner of her mouth curls. “We’ll see. Until the session closes for sure. Maybe longer, depending on if the plan passes.” She hesitates. “If it doesn’t – I might even go down to the Orange with her.” 

Tyler is impressed; that’s more dedication to the cause than he expected. “Really?” 

Her shoulders lift. She looks up at him. “It’s – good to be doing something. It’s not what my parents had in mind, but – I guess we’re all having to learn to be flexible. Anyway, mother has been talking more and more about moving in with her sister and I don’t want to be in that house alone.” Her voice carries the hint of a shiver. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Tyler says. She smiles, tight, and he turns back to watch the closed chamber doors. One of McCarthy’s aides – the one with the blond hair who’d joked about Mike getting shot is in the seat right next to the doors. Tyler narrows his eyes at him. 

“Hopefully I’ll be able to help. It feels sort of like I’m stepping in at the end of things. There’s so much that I just – have no idea what Maggie is talking about.” 

“Well, I’m here if you have any questions.” Tyler pauses. “For the next two days, at least.” 

“Okay, then for a start, what happens if this plan is voted down?” 

“Then we’ve all wasted a month.” The aide is glaring back at him now. “We go back home. Work on putting together something new, I guess. Meet back here in a few months and try again.” 

Cynthia hums, shifting next to him. She follows his gaze across the room, and her voice drops into a conspiratorial tone. “You could land him, but I think you could do better.” 

“I could – ” Tyler looks away from the aide, confused for the split-second before his mind catches up. _“No._ ” He turns back to give his best face-off death glare to McCarthy’s aide, who is pallid and gangly and not at _all_ – “No.” He coughs. “I’m not looking at the moment.” 

“No?” She turns her face up to his, all innocence. “Is there already a boy, then?” 

Tyler can feel a blush creeping into his cheeks. 

“Or better yet, is there a story?” 

Tyler breaks, looking away. “A very, very long one.” 

Whether this plan passes or not, eventually he’s going to head back to the Lake. Tyler thuds his head against the wall. He tries to imagine how that first conversation with Tanner might go. Assuming Tanner is still there. Are they even going to have a conversation? Are they going to be friends? He shifts, trying to ease the tight feeling in his shoulders. 

From beyond the doors, there is a burst of raised voices. 

Cynthia glances towards it. “How long is this supposed to take?” 

“I don’t know,” Tyler says. “This is the first time it’s – ” 

The doors rock open. Mike is one of the first out. 

“ – that long, apparently.” Tyler finishes. 

Mike storms straight past Tyler without slowing. His face is red, hands balled at his sides. Tyler takes half a step in pursuit and thinks better of it. Other Players are streaming out after him, the hallway suddenly a swirl of chaos, and behind the Players, the Unionists and Independents are starting to trickle out, their faces downcast, or pale, or some of them seem just as angry as Mike. 

Tyler exchanges a glance with Cynthia. 

Representative Stevens is one of the last to emerge. She drifts to a halt in front of Cynthia, looking dazed. 

Cynthia digs in the bag and produces a bottle of water, which she hands to Stevens. “How did it go?” 

Stevens, more than anything, looks resigned. “About as we expected. Some support among the Independents.” A mixture of emotions flickers across her face. “But a Union voting block torpedoed it. We’re going to reconvene in two months.” She pauses to drink, nodding a thank you at Cynthia. “We should start packing the office. And I need to make plans to get back to the Orange.” She holds out her arm for her bag, then hesitates, turning back to face Tyler. “Thank you,” she says. “I know we weren’t on the same side of this one, but – I enjoyed working with you.” 

“Likewise,” Tyler says. 

Stevens nods, and casting one last glance over her shoulder at him, Cynthia follows her down the hall as she goes. 

Only a few people are left in the hallway now, milling and filtering towards the stairs, but one of them is Cedric McCarthy. He looks past the clump of aides and fellow Unionists surrounding him. He looks right at Tyler. And ever so slight, he tips his head in the direction of his office. 

 

 

Tyler turns on his heel. He gives McCarthy twenty minutes and then works his way to the Unionist wing. This time, when he walks into the McCarthy’s office, the secretary looks up at him immediately, pausing in her work. “He’s expecting you.” She gestures to the door. 

Tyler knocks and enters. 

Just like last time, McCarthy is behind his desk. He’s writing something and he doesn’t stop when Tyler comes in, just waves him wordlessly forward. 

It’s a dick move to summon him here and then keep him waiting. Tyler can feel his back stiffen. 

“Correspondence, Mr. Toffoli.” McCarthy finishes writing, signing his name with a flourish. “A dying art.” He presses an intercom button. 

Tyler is tired of dicking around. “What do you want from me? Because you’ve got a lot of nerve if you think I’m going to help you right after you torpedoed the Players’ plan. What happened to wanting to move forward?” 

McCarthy looks at him over his reading glasses. He waits, in silence, while an aide enters and takes the folded note McCarthy places in his hand. Only after the door is snugly shut, does McCarthy say. “You never did come see me. Did you find the time to visit home?” 

Tyler nods stiffly. “I did.” 

McCarthy removes his glasses. He holds them up and studies the lenses before drawing a square of silk from an inner pocket. Cleaning the glass, he murmurs, “And how was it?” 

“You know exactly how it was,” Tyler spits. 

McCarthy’s eyebrow lifts; his hands pause. “Do I now?” 

“Someone searched it,” Tyler says, voice flat. “Someone turned the house upside down looking for something.” McCarthy’s eyes stay on his the whole time, cool and expressionless. “Was it you?” 

McCarthy doesn’t say anything. 

“I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know why you think I know anything. I don’t know where my parents are, okay? I don’t know – ” 

McCarthy breaks in with, “Do you know why they left Toronto?” 

Tyler stops short. “No.” 

Something that is not quite a smile touches the corners of McCarthy’s mouth. “I know – a bit – about that.” 

Tyler forces himself to remain still and quiet. 

McCarthy looks amused by Tyler’s reaction. “Your father was part of a moderate faction. Quite powerful for a time.” He eyes Tyler up and down before returning to the task of polishing his glasses. 

Questions seethe in Tyler’s mind, but he bites his tongue. McCarthy could take all day if he wanted, and there’s nothing Tyler can say that would rush him. 

McCarthy’s eyes flick to him again. “Your father became increasingly dissatisfied with the direction the Union was headed. Now, of course, he was not the only malcontent.” He holds his glasses up to the light again and apparently satisfied, pockets them. “That dear friend of the Players, Dean Lombardi, was another.” 

Tyler stiffens. 

“Of course you knew that.” McCarthy watches his face. “Such a hero, Mr. Lombardi. Willing to start to start a war for liberation and equality.” He puts a strange, mocking emphasis on the words. His eyes narrow. “How very selfless of him, don’t you agree?” 

Tyler doesn’t dare answer. He hardly dares breathe. There’s nothing clouded in McCarthy’s eyes now; they pierce him, holding him in place. 

“But that was not your father’s tactic. You know, I honestly think he believed war could be avoided, right up until the end. Such a middle of the road type,” McCarthy repeats, almost to himself. Then he fixes Tyler with another hard stare. “Do you know what happens to middle of the road types, Tyler, when a truck comes barreling through?” 

Tyler’s stomach drops. 

“You have to get out of the way, or you get flattened.” McCarthy’s hand falls to the table, making a loud clap. Tyler jumps. 

“Your father managed such a disappearing act.” McCarthy’s milky blue eyes bore into his. “And he took some very – sensitive – information with him.” His voice has slowed, dropping to a low growl. 

Everything in Tyler wants to turn and rush for the door, and it takes all his strength just to stand in front of McCarthy and remain still. 

McCarthy straightens in his chair, leaning back. “And then, of course, came the letter.” 

Tyler goes cold, then hot. His face flushes and he can feel his heart trip in his chest. “The letter?” He barely manages a whisper. 

McCarthy is watching him very carefully. “After he disappeared, your father sent a letter to Dean Lombardi. But it was intercepted before it could be delivered.” 

Tyler’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “Intercepted by who?” 

McCarthy smiles, very slow. He reaches into his desk, and as Tyler holds his breath, he unlocks a drawer, and pulls forth a single, slim envelope. 

He places it on the desk between them. “Go ahead.” He taps the paper once. “Be my guest.” 

Tyler pulls the envelope towards him with shaking hands. The handwriting on the outside is hurried, but unmistakably his father’s. 

_Office of the General Manager_  
_Monarchs Complex_  
_120 Spruce Lane_  
_Manchester. Yellow Post Code 01765_

He looks up at McCarthy. The smile hasn’t left McCarthy’s face. Tyler swallows. His stomach drops as he pulls the page free. 

But after all that, it’s barely a letter at all. A single page, unaddressed. Only a few hastily scrawled lines: 

_I don’t have much time to explain. I had to leave because I can’t risk the harm I know they’d do. I left my most precious possession in Manchester – the key to everything. The key to undoing all of it._

The page is crumpled, as though it was stuffed into the envelope with a great deal of haste. Tyler reads it twice. Reads it a third time, and still can’t make himself look away from the page. Or speak. Or hear anything but his own blood pounding in his ears. 

“Your father said he left the ‘key to everything’ in Manchester.” McCarthy pauses. “No wonder Lombardi has moved mountains to keep you safe.” 

Tyler’s eyes snap from the page to McCarthy’s face. 

“Say what you will about Lombardi,” McCarthy’s hands are steepled on the desk in front of him. “But he is effective.” His eyes are intent on Tyler. “But you, Mr. Toffoli, you are the rut that can upset the apple cart. You are the wild card. And Dean didn’t shelter you out of the goodness of his heart, whatever he would like you to believe. So naturally, what we both want to know is – what did you father tell you? What did he say before he disappeared?” 

Tyler feels frozen, fingers still gripping the page, unable to look away from McCarthy. He shakes his head, all at once feeling very young, and very alone, and afraid. “I don’t – I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Then I suggest you try to find out. And I will remind you that when you do, who you share that information with is of the utmost importance.” His eyes drill into Tyler’s, a faded unblinking blue. “As we saw from this last vote, I am in a position to help you a great deal. But I also have no nostalgia-driven qualms about removing people who stand in the way of our forward progress. Do you understand me?” 

Tyler nods, unable to say anything at all. 

McCarthy leans forward. “Keep the letter if you like. Perhaps it will jog your memory.” He smiles, a slick, reptilian expression with no warmth at all. “See you in two months, Mr. Toffoli.” 

 

 

It’s dark by the time they make it back to the Lake. The gray mood of Toronto has followed them the whole way, and Tyler spent this last bit of the drive in the back seat, with his forehead resting against the cool glass of the window, trying to ignore both the low-grade nausea in his stomach and the air of grim resignation emanating from the front seat. 

Mike takes the last turn and slows to a halt in front of the Lake’s interior perimeter guard. He rolls down the window, and the burst of cool air stirs Tyler from a light half-doze. The sentry emerges from his makeshift checkpoint, glances quickly at the occupants before waving them on. “Welcome home.” 

Mike nods, and then the familiar shape of the lodge looms out of the shadows. He brings the car to a halt in the gravel drive, and outside the air is damp and smells like lake water and forest and earth. Tyler breathes deep; he can see Mike and Jeff are pausing, too. Pulling in great lungfuls of what must be, for them, the smell of home. 

Jeff stretches, lacing his fingers together high above his head. His shifting weight makes the gravel under his feet crunch. The cicadas are loud all around them, but otherwise, for this moment at least, the Lake is still. 

Then, one of the lights in the main lodge flicks on. Jeff’s hands fall. He looks at Mike. 

Mike sighs. “Time to go break the news.” He heads for the front door, Jeff just behind him. 

Tyler hangs back for a moment, pulling a couple of the bags from the back and shouldering them. The rest of it – the boxes of documents and files they brought back with them – can wait until morning. 

Even though he gave them a couple minutes head start, when Tyler makes it into the kitchen, Irene is still hugging Mike. Tyler pauses in the doorway. He sets the bags down. Across the room, Jeff nods at him, mouths the words, “Thank you.” 

Irene finally lets go of Mike. She follows Jeff’s gaze, and only a bit hesitant, crosses the room, and hugs Tyler. “Glad you made it back safe.” 

Tyler lets himself be gripped. 

Irene steps back, turning to face Mike again. “Well?” 

Mike rubs a hand across his face. “We’ve got two months to come up with something new.” 

Irene’s face falls. “You have to go back so soon?” 

Mike heaves a sigh. “Don’t remind me. I don’t want to think about it yet.” 

They need to be thinking about it, though. Mail only comes through once or twice a week at most, depending on the speed of the couriers. Which means if they’re going to draft anything significant, and have time to get feedback from the other Players, they’ll need to start soon. They left Toronto without discussing the failed plan with anyone, which means they really need input from – 

“What are you frowning about?” Mike’s voice cuts into his thoughts. 

Tyler looks at him. “I was just thinking we need to write to Doan. And probably Thornton. Soon, if we’re going to get input from them on – ” 

Mike rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, give it a rest.” 

Tyler cuts off. 

“It can wait,” Jeff interrupts. He casts an apologetic glance toward Tyler, then pushes at Mike’s shoulder. “At least until tomorrow. We all need sleep.” 

Mike deflates. His shoulders seem to fold, and he gives in to the press of that hand, turning toward the stairs. 

Jeff turns back toward Tyler, and Tyler nods. “Sure,” he says. “See you tomorrow.” 

Mike and Jeff head upstairs. Irene clears her throat, and Tyler looks up to find her looking back at him. “We had to give your room away. We needed the space,” she says. Her tone is not particularly apologetic. “But for now, I set up a cot for you in the library office. I hope that’s alright.” 

Just the idea of sleeping, sleeping anywhere, is a relief. And if nothing else, the library will be quiet. “That’s fine. Thank you.” 

She smiles at him, a touch awkward. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” 

“Is – ” He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Except if he doesn’t ask, he’s just going to lie awake all night worrying about it. “Is Tanner still here?” 

A look of surprise crosses her face. “Of course he is.” She pauses, and Tyler flushes under searching gaze. “He’s been working,” she offers carefully. “He’s been doing – better.” 

Tyler’s face feels like it’s on fire. “Thank you.” 

She hesitates then, an uncertainty rings in the pause before her words, but her voice is gentle. “Goodnight, Tyler. And welcome home.” 

 

 

Tyler cracks his eyes open. From his place on the cot, he can see a glimpse of sky through the window. A solid layer of gray clouds makes the morning light soft and diffuse. Tyler shifts his gaze to his feet instead. He slept with socks on because his feet extend out past the edge of the cot. The socks, at least, are a bright, cheery red. 

The only cheerful thing in the room, really. 

Tyler drums his hands against his chest and stares at the ceiling. As soon as he gets up, he’s going to have to start answering questions. Going to have to start breaking the bad news to the long list of people he’s let down. 

His thoughts wander back to the Assembly. Maybe they should have started talking to the Independents earlier. Or maybe he shouldn’t have let Mike meet with the Independents at all. Maybe they should have paid more attention to the Hamden compromise. Or Tyler could have pressed Wayne harder. Or maybe he should have told Mike about his conversations with McCarthy. 

Tyler rubs the bridge of his nose; the drumbeat of an ache is already starting up again behind his temples. 

McCarthy’s gonna be expecting a response from Tyler, and Tyler only has two months to figure out what to tell him. Someone has to know what Tyler’s father knows. Someone has to know what his father supposedly did that McCarthy and Dean both seem so eager to get out of Tyler. 

Tyler closes his eyes and re-lives the last night he last saw his parents. He tries to remember every word his father spoke that night, but the most vivid sounds in his memory are the wind through the trees and his mother crying. He remembers his father holding Tyler’s face in his hands. He remembers the shake of those hands, the cold of the new tags biting into his skin. He remembers his mother’s tear-stained face and his father’s hair whipped about by the wind – but not anything more about what he said. No words of wisdom jumping out as something that might be the grand, revelatory key. 

None of this is particularly motivating him to want to get out of bed. Tyler makes a face and pushes the blanket back, anyway. Nothing to do but face the day. 

The Richards’ private living quarters seem to be empty, but he finds coffee and biscuits sitting out in the small kitchen. He helps himself to both, but there’s no sign of Mike or Jeff by the time he finishes. Tyler looks up, towards the ceiling. Mike’s certainly not going to be interested in prepping for the second Assembly if Tyler tries to drag him out of bed in order to do it. Maybe this is it, then. Maybe this is his way of telling Tyler his services are no longer required. 

Technically, he had only agreed to Tyler’s helping him out for the duration of their stay in Toronto. Tyler thought drafting a new plan would be more than enough work to keep both of them busy, but maybe not. Tyler drums his fingers on the tabletop, and frowns at the unfamiliar sensation of being at loose ends. 

Uncertain what else to do, he heads for the garage. 

Tyler stands in the bay door. The music and the clang of work has masked the sounds of his arrival, and for a moment he stands watching Alex bent over an engine, and Sam’s feet dangling out from underneath an old Ford. And even if it’s ridiculous, even if the space is nothing but chill, damp cement and the smell of grease, the sight makes Tyler smile. The familiar cadences warm him, from the inside out. 

Alex finally looks up and freezes. “Tyler!” 

Sam slides out from under the car. “Tyler’s back?” 

Alex nods towards him. 

Sam is up and off the creeper in an instant. He throws his arms around Tyler with enough force to cause Tyler to rock back a step. Tyler laughs. “Hey Sam.” 

Sam gives Tyler’s back a hearty thump. 

Tyler disentangles himself, and Alex wanders over to greet him. “We heard you guys got back last night. I didn’t know if you’d show up here though.” 

Tyler himself didn’t know if he would, either, until about twenty minutes ago. But now his uncertainty feels like hubris, like he was assuming he’d outgrown this. “Of course I came here. Unless you’re all full up of half-assed mechanics?” 

She gives him a face like she’s working very hard not to smile. “We always need more help. Even if it’s as half-assed as you are.” She nods toward the office. “Buster even saved your coveralls.” 

Before Tyler left, Buster had threatened to rip Tyler’s embroidered name patch from his coveralls the second Tyler was out the door. “Gotta have ‘em ready for the next waste of space,” he’d said. 

Tyler smiles. “Glad to hear it.” 

“How was Toronto?” Alex asks. 

“It, uh – ” Tyler hesitates. “I’m still trying to figure that out, to be honest.” 

Her expression is skeptical, but she doesn’t press him on it. “So, are you back like for-real back? You gonna work here again?” 

Tyler shifts, uncomfortable. “Why wouldn’t I work here again?” 

Alex lifts her eyebrows, like the answer should be obvious. “I don’t know. I just thought, like – you’re doing more important things now.” 

Tyler makes himself laugh to cover his uncertainty. “Hardly. In Toronto, I fetched coffee and made copies and got yelled at a lot.” He pauses. “Basically the same stuff I did here, only less oil.” 

She relaxes, finally smiling. “Suit yourself. Don’t know if _I’d_ come back to this dump, if I had an out, but – ” She trails off. 

“Well – Mike’s got to go back to Toronto in a couple months, but.” Tyler shrugs. “I don’t know if he’ll want me with him or not. Things didn’t exactly go according to plan last time, and – ” And in his head, Tyler can hear McCarthy’s cold voice, his low growl, and a swell of anxiety rushes back. He tries to shake it off. “And anyway, I’ll be able to help out around here, at least until Mike lets me know what he wants.” 

She grins again, but more cautious this time. “Have you seen Tanner yet?” 

Tyler had actually been doing a pretty good job of not thinking about Tanner this morning, at least not for any longer than the ten seconds it took him to tell himself to think about something else, which would have been more effective if he did not also have to remind himself not to think about Tanner roughly every thirty seconds. 

Tyler shrugs, but Alex doesn’t seem as inclined to let this go, and it’s not like Tyler didn’t realize he was going to have to address this eventually, it’s just he didn’t quite expect this conversation to be happening here. With her. Tyler shifts under her steady gaze. “No. We got in late last night. I haven’t really seen anyone.” He hesitates. “How – I mean – have you seen him around?” 

Alex drops his gaze, turning instead to study the Ford they’re standing in front of. Her fingers run along the gaskets, and she pauses to pick at a bit of corrosion. “We’ve been hanging out a bit.” 

Tyler’s first reaction is a flush of jealousy, so sharp and so sudden he doesn’t have a prayer of biting his words back. “What do you mean?” 

“Jesus, Tyler. Relax.” She looks back at him, eyes wide. 

And, okay, any plan Tyler had of maintaining a cool and aloof façade where Tanner is concerned is clearly blown. 

“I’ve been teaching him to play the guitar.” Alex pauses, frowning at him. “Tanner, me, _and Sam_ have all been hanging out. So, if you’re gonna be around, I just thought you’d want to know that Tanner’ll be around, too.” 

“Why are you teaching him to play the guitar?” It still comes out too sharp. Tyler needs to get a grip. 

She looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Because he wants to learn?” 

Last time Tyler checked, Alex didn’t even _like_ Tanner. Now Tyler leaves for a month, and he comes back to his friends hanging out with Tanner – who _hit_ him, Tyler feels like reminding them. Who walked out on him. Who could barely string two sober hours together – and Tyler would like to know what, what _exactly_ , happened to bring that about. “I mean,” he makes his voice as chilly and deliberate as possible, “why from _you_?” 

Alex’s mouth twists, although the hint of guilt on her face tells Tyler she gets what he’s implying. Her eyes rest on the car again for a minute, fingers moving in that nervous gesture of tracing the parts. “You didn’t tell him you were leaving. He came to the garage to ask where you had gone.” She shrugs, and there’s something in the pause that makes Tyler get the feeling she’s skipping over something, leaving some part out. “So we started hanging out. That’s how it started.” 

Tyler looks at Sam. Sam nods. He’s taking his cues about discretion from Alex, but Sam has an even worse poker face than Alex, and there’s _something_ that’s not getting said. Tyler’s chest is tight. “What –” 

Buster’s voice booms forth from inside the office. “Why doesn’t it sound like anybody’s working? Who are you gabbing with out there?” 

Tyler gives Alex another hard look, trying to convey that they’re not done talking about this, but he doesn’t have any time to say anything more, before Buster’s form appears in the doorway. He breaks into a broad grin at the sight of Tyler, which naturally, gets quickly covered by a scowl. “Well, if it isn’t the big-shot politician. You get tired of shaking hands and kissing babies?” 

“Hey, Buster,” Tyler greets him. 

“What are you doing here?” Buster asks, crossing the shop floor towards them. 

Tyler rocks back on his heels. “Looking for my old job back, I guess.” 

“You guess?” Buster takes a swipe at him, musing his hair. “You still remember how to hold a wrench? Not too fancy now to get your hands dirty, are you?” 

Tyler ducks away. “For you? Never.” 

The grin steals back onto Buster’s face. “Got this Ford, and two of the transport trucks that need to be completely rebuilt. Yesterday, if possible.” He watches Tyler a moment longer. “Well? Get to work.” 

He claps Tyler on the back as he walks past. 

The rhythm of the garage is easy to fall back into. It’s a relief to fall back into. And when they finish for the day, Tyler heads to the corner of the shop where his motorcycle is carefully covered with a tarp. From the looks of it, the tarp hasn’t been touched since he left, but stacked carefully next to it, in a neat pile, are bolts, a filter of the size Tyler had been looking for before he left, and a bottle of brake fluid. Tyler kneels to study these leavings. 

The sound of Buster’s footsteps warn Tyler of his approach. Buster toes the edge of the pile. “I thought these might be helpful. A jump start on getting back in the swing of things, you know.” He sounds almost bashful. 

Buster coughs. “The roads are clear. You finished most of the major stuff before you left.” He pauses, like even he’s surprised by what he’s saying. “You’ll be riding this thing before long.” 

On the drive back to the Lake, Tyler had watched the forest whip past on either side from the he closed box of the car and wondered how that same drive might feel on the back of his bike. He studies the machine in front of him. “If I can figure out how to ride without killing myself, that is.” 

He glances up. He means it as a joke, but he doesn’t hear the booming bark of laughter he expected. He expected that laugh, followed by Buster saying, _the rate you fix things, gonna be snow on the ground before we get to find_ out. Or even, _yeah, if you’re as clumsy out there as you are in here, you’ll be a stain on the highway in no time._

Instead Buster just smiles down at him. “Something tells me you’ll manage.” 

 

 

The garage is closed on Saturday. Tyler gets up early anyway, hoping to catch Mike, who he hasn’t seen at all in the last three days. They had arrived back at the Lake to a pile of mail waiting for Mike. When he unpacked the car, Tyler had added the documents they brought with them from Toronto to the stack, setting on top the pieces that seemed most urgent, but as far as he can tell, nothing has yet been touched. 

Yesterday, Irene brought in a whole new stack, freshly collected from the courier, and since it didn’t look like anyone else was going to do it, Tyler set about sorting it. 

The pile has already grown to an intimidating height. 

Tyler picks the letters he’s deemed priorities off the top of the stack. He flips them between his fingers, taps them against the kitchen table, and eyes the cooling cup of coffee in front of him. 

Tyler’d been hoping to catch Mike at breakfast, but there’s no sign of him in the kitchen. 

Irene bustles past again, and Tyler calls out after her, “Have you seen Mike this morning?” 

She doesn’t pause; it’s not even eight in the morning, but she probably has a list of things she wants to get done before nine. “He was up and out early. Headed down to the boathouse, I think.” 

Tyler frowns, irritated. If Mike has enough time to fuck around with his boat, he ought to have time to deal with Assembly business. The more urgent aspects of it, at least. Tyler takes the letters with him and heads outside. The early sun is bright overhead, and the water glints in front of him as he draws closer. The air near the water’s edge is cooler. A breeze pushes his hair back as he walks the length of the dock. There’s a motley collection of rowboats and canoes tied to it. A couple battered jon boats, and one stray sunfish, the colors of its sail faded by the sun. Mike’s boat is kept at the very end. Larger than the rest, its better upkeep and more frequent use clear even to Tyler. 

As Tyler approaches, the dog curled on the end of the dock barks, and Mike’s head bobs into view, visible over the side of the boat. 

He peers at Tyler, squinting into the sun. “Morning.” There’s a certain tone of suspicion in his voice. “You’re up and about early.” 

Tyler holds up the letters. “I wanted to talk to you about these. The responses aren’t gonna write themselves, and since I haven’t managed to catch you around the lodge, I thought I’d head down here.” 

Mike turns back to whatever it is he’s working on near the back of the boat. “Yeah, well, that’s gonna have to wait. I’m taking the boat out today.” 

“Are you kidding?” Tyler blinks at him. “Mike, we’ve got a ton to do. Mail is already piling up, and – ” 

“We’ve got two months to do it.” 

“Exactly. That’s only eight weeks. That’s nothing. We need to figure out what we’re going to put into the new plan, get a draft of it written, hopefully send it out and get at least some feedback on it before Toronto.” 

Mike stops working again and stares at him. The bill of his hat throws a slice of shade across his eyes, but Tyler can still make out the way they’re narrowed at him. “We didn’t do any of that last time, and – ” 

“And we got nothing done last time.” Tyler can hear his voice rising, but Mike hasn’t done jack shit for three days now, and he can’t possibly be serious about showing up to the Assembly the same way they did last time. “People are depending on us to get something done.” He pauses, staring at Mike. “You’re supposed to be representing people.” 

Mike scowls. He gets to his feet, the boat bobbing lightly under him in response to the movement, but Mike doesn’t seem to notice. He glares back at Tyler. “I’m supposed to be representing _these_ people.” He waves one hand in a loose gesture towards the main buildings up the hill. “And like me, they just want to be left alone. I think I’m doing a pretty good job of helping them do that.” 

Tyler feels blood flush his face. His fingers grip the letters so hard he can feel the paper start to crumple. He’s angry. Angrier than he should be about this. “We left Toronto without talking to anyone about what went wrong or what they wanted. You’re not going to get what you want if McCarthy steamrolls the Players. You have to talk to people – ” 

“I talked to plenty of fucking people in Toronto,” Mike snaps, leaning close and getting in Tyler’s space. “I spent a whole fucking month doing nothing but talking – ” 

“Okay, then you have to actually _listen_ to people,” Tyler shouts over him. “Like – ” Tyler holds up one of the letters he brought with him, the one from Representative Stevens, “ – like Stevens. We are going to need the Independents’ cooperation if – ” 

Mike reaches out and snags the letter from Tyler’s hand. He tears it in two and drops the pieces into the water. 

Tyler stares at them, white squares slowly sinking into the green. He lifts his eyes to Mike’s and sets his jaw. “Just because you don’t want to do it doesn’t change the fact that it needs to be done.” 

“Fine.” Mike’s voice is a low growl. “Then you do it.” 

Tyler freezes for a moment. “Me?” 

“Yeah you. If you’re so sure fucking sure about what needs to be done, you write up something to send and I’ll sign it. Go through the mail while you’re at it, open anything from the Reps or pitch it, I don’t care.” He turns his back on Tyler. “Now, fuck off. I have a livewell to purge and a largemouth bass somewhere out there with my name on it.” 

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Tyler spits at Mike’s back, his blood still running hot. He turns to go, takes two steps down the dock, and looks up to see Tanner, standing with Sam and Alex. 

Tyler freezes. His heart freezes in his chest. He can feel heat in his face again, this time an embarrassed warmth. All three of them are standing motionless, near enough that they could have overheard his argument with Mike, and with awkward expressions on their faces that say they did. 

Alex looks especially uncomfortable. Sam’s eyes are down, and Tanner – Tanner’s pants are rolled to mid-calf. He’s wearing a tank top that reveals browned forearms and paler shoulders. His face isn’t as thin as Tyler remembers it being. His eyes are clear. And he’s staring at Tyler. 

Sam breaks the silence, lifting his face and smiling at Tyler. “Hey, Tyler. We were gonna take some canoes out. You wanna come?” 

Tyler blinks, and now that he’s looking, all three of them are dressed for a day out on the water. Alex is even holding a bag that looks like it probably contains lunch. A picnic out on the lake that they clearly planned. And didn’t mention to him. 

It’s stupid to be hurt by that. Tyler has a million things going on, a million things he should be doing; it’s stupid to be jealous. But there’s a sick pit forming in his stomach anyway. He swallows against the matching lump that’s forming in his throat. “Thanks, but – ” He gestures weakly back toward Mike. “You probably – I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.” 

“Are you sure?” It’s Tanner who asks, and he smiles an easy, broad smile. 

He looks happy. He looks at ease with Alex and Sam. Tyler should be happy for him; he’s clearly doing better. But there’s jealousy twisting in Tyler’s stomach, and something in Tanner’s tone is tugging at the strings of his memory. 

“It’s supposed to be hot today,” Tanner continues. “Be a lot cooler on the water.” 

Tyler realizes where he’s heard Tanner sound this smooth and collected before. He sounds like Tanner when Tyler first knew him, and he kept Tyler carefully on the outside. 

Anxiety percolates under his skin, familiar from those old Manchester days. He’s waiting for Tanner to call him a faggot. 

“No, sorry.” Tyler brushes past them. “I’m busy.” 

 

 

Tyler’s not lying, he is busy. He works into the evening, drafting ideas for the new plan for Mike. There has to be a way to come up with something a majority of the Representatives can support. Preferably something that won’t end up with them all under McCarthy’s thumb. 

Off and on throughout the day, he’s been working on the List again, too. The List has languished more or less dormant during the month Tyler and Jeff spent in Toronto, and a certain guilt about that keeps pulling Tyler back to it to keep plugging away at adding names. But it’s hard to stay focused on digging up the names of strangers and listing them in alphabetical order, when people Tyler knows and loves have left plenty of their own mysteries. 

Like what his father communicated to Tyler that Dean and McCarthy both so desperately want to know. Or whether he told Tyler at all. Maybe he meant to and never got the chance? Maybe he thought he did, but in the rush to get out of Toronto, he didn’t? 

That doesn’t seem plausible. But it also doesn’t seem plausible that his dad would have told Tyler some really profound, Union-destabilizing piece of information which Tyler then promptly _forgot_. 

Tyler drums his fingers on the desk. But if his dad found out something really important about the Union, then there’s the possibility Tyler could find this thing out, too. This is a library, after all. Even as home-grown and jury-rigged as it is, it’s still supposed to be a place for research. Plus, he’s surrounded by binders and binders full of Union information. And with just a few clicks, he can bring up the Union’s own database, right on the computer sitting on his desk. 

Except, of course, none of it’s any use, because ninety-nine percent of everything is encrypted. 

Tyler understands now what the long blocks of nonsense text in the binders that fill the shelves are: bits of the database someone sometime in the past had printed out and secreted away. Probably in the vain hope that someone else, sometime in the future would be able to decode it. 

But even when he is working on the unencrypted bits of the transfer and incarceration logs to find and add names to the List, the work feels uninspired and backward. It’s so _slow,_ like he’s picking crumbs of information from the floor, when a whole banquet is laid out just in front of him. 

Just in front of him, but just out of reach. 

So, instead of focusing entirely on the monotonous addition of names to the List, or the intimidatingly frustrating work of drafting letters to Assembly Representatives, Tyler starts a tentative inquiry into methods of decryption and code-breaking. Unfortunately, the resources Jeff’s library has on the topic are minimal at best. Apparently the Union didn’t leave a whole lot of information security texts just lying around for someone to stumble over and then ship to _Jeff Carter c/o The Middle of Nowhere_. 

It’s late. Tyler rubs his eyes. As one untrained person, working alone with limited resources, it’s a hell of a long shot that he’ll be able to accomplish anything useful. Maybe if he had a lifetime to read up on the subject. Tyler turns his attention to the monitor and hits a key idly. The computer screen shifts to some other bit of completely incomprehensible text. 

Or maybe not. 

His father used to say that a disciplined mind was a man’s most valuable tool. But that was usually in response to something like Tyler trying to get out of his Latin homework. Tyler doesn’t know if even his father could make headway here. 

Tyler hits another key, harder than he should. Not only is everything useful encrypted, he doesn’t even know what he’s supposedto be looking for, because as far as he can remember, his dad didn’t tell him a goddamn thing. He dad dumped him in Manchester and fucked off to god-knows-where and left him completely in the dark, no matter what the stupid letter to Dean says. 

Tyler grits his teeth. This is pointless. He should try to get some sleep. 

A soft knock at the door startles him into looking up. 

It’s Tanner. 

Tanner is standing in the doorway of the office, knocking hand still raised, an uncertain expression on his face. 

Tyler blinks. He takes in the breadth of Tanner’s shoulders, and the line of them, canted in the doorway. He tries to judge whether they look strained, look stressed. If the leaning against the frame is exhaustion, or just Tanner being casual, or just Tanner trying to pretend to be casual, or – 

“Are you busy?” Tanner asks. 

Nerves steal Tyler’s voice. 

Tanner frowns. “If it’s a bad time, I could come back – ” 

“No.” Tyler’s manages to unfreeze. “No, it’s fine.” He stands, awkward and too fast, and jams his leg against the desk and has to drop back down with a wince. “Really.” 

Tanner’s frown fades into a look of skepticism, but he takes a hesitant step into the room, and suddenly it’s weird – it’s too weird looking at him from across a desk. Like Tanner’s come to see Tyler to deliver some report or ask for help finding a book or one of the other equally absurd reasons people interrupt him in here. Tyler stands, successfully this time. “We can talk in the library?” He waves back toward the door to the main room with a gesture that instantly feels unnecessary and stilted. “There’s – more space out there?” 

Tanner nods. He steps aside to let Tyler precede him into the main room. Tyler makes his way stiffly to the reading table. Tanner sits down across from him. 

Tyler crosses his arms against his chest, but then thinks that might look standoffish. He tries folding his hands together in front of him, but he can’t keep them still, and settles, eventually, for clutching them in his lap, where at the very least, his white knuckles are hidden by the table. 

Tanner watches him the whole time. He says, “You didn’t have anything to say to me on the dock this morning.” 

Tyler feels just as tongue-tied and stupid as he ever did in any of his earliest conversations with Tanner – back in those heady days when he hadn’t known what Tanner’s hands moving over his body felt like, but had spent so much time imagining. When he hadn’t known what any of Tanner’s glances or smiles or gestures meant, and had been too scared to even really hope that any of them might mean anything good. 

Tanner’s eyes narrow. “Guess you don’t have anything to say to me now, either.” 

“No, sorry – sorry, I’m just – ” Tyler shakes himself. “Hi.” 

Tanner smiles. A very small, uneven lift of the corner of his mouth that is barely noticeable, and utterly, desperately familiar. It’s a darker expression than the one he wore this morning, more like the one worn by the Tanner that Tyler knew in the cabin. “Hi?” Tanner parrots. “You’ve been gone forty-two days and that’s it?” 

He knows how many days Tyler was gone. Tyler is at a loss for words again. Already. 

“No, ‘how are you?’ No, ‘how have you been, did you miss me?’” Tanner’s tone is light, but his gaze is too sharp for him to really be as nonchalant as he’s trying to sound. Even his posture is different, his shoulders curled. 

“Alright,” Tyler can manage this much at least. “How are you? How have you been?” 

“I’ve been better,” Tanner says. “But I’ve also been worse.” 

Tyler swallows. Even if he’s just playing along with Tanner’s script, the next question is a lot harder to get out. “Did you miss me?” 

Tanner is silent for one, long moment. “I don’t know,” he says. 

That stings, and Tyler feels a sharp prickle start up behind his eyes. He looks away. 

“Sorry.” Tanner lapses into silence again. Out of the corner of his eye, Tyler can see his hands, twisting on the table top. In a lower voice, Tanner adds, “If you want me to go, I will.” 

That sets off a sharp stab of panic in Tyler’s chest. Tyler looks back at him. “No. No, I want you to stay.” And he does. So much so that all at once, it takes everything in him not to reach across the table and grab Tanner’s hands, or his arms, or to just throw himself in front of the door and say, _please, please stay._

Tyler manages not to say any of that, or do any of that. He stays quiet and watches Tanner make the effort to stop fidgeting and set his hands flat on the table. 

“Mostly I came by to say I’m sorry for hitting you.” Tanner’s voice has gone stiff. The words sound practiced. “I’m sorry for – a lot. I was in a really bad place before you left. I took a lot of things out on you, and I’m sorry.” 

The burn behind Tyler’s eyes is growing, and the lump forming in his throat makes it hard to talk. Tanner’s voice is so controlled – it makes it hard to tell what he’s thinking. Tyler tries to study his face instead, tries to glean some clue from his expression of what those words mean, but Tanner drops his gaze, his eyes resting instead on his hands on the table. 

It’s hard not to think about the last time they were alone together, and how angry Tyler had been. But even hundreds of miles away, Tyler had thought about him every single day. Now Tanner is in front of him, and even though it’s been over a month, it feels like no time has passed at all. Tyler feels just as raw in his presence, and just as terrified as he always has that he’s going to say the wrong thing, and Tanner is going to get up and walk away. 

That’s the worst thing he can imagine. Even though last time, it was Tyler who left. 

The anxiety makes Tyler’s stomach churn. Everything between them is so complicated now, and part of him wishes there was a way to go back. He wishes things could be as simple as they were in the cabin in Hamden, and maybe if he could go back, he’d ask Tanner what he wanted – because Tyler would have rather done that, whatever it was, than have been responsible for bringing him any kind of misery. 

And if Tyler could really go back, if he had some sort of magic, or a wish, or a genie to command, he would make it so wherever Tanner was that hurt him, whatever happened to make him afraid, Tyler would fix it, would prevent it, would have gotten him out sooner. 

Tyler can feel tears on his cheeks, and he blinks, wipes his face. He can’t do any of that, but he owes Tanner an apology, too. 

Tyler clears his throat, and it takes a couple of tries to get the words out. “I’m sorry that I dragged you to a place that made you miserable – ” 

Tanner starts to shake his head, but Tyler presses on, “ – and I’m sorry that I didn’t know how to help you.” Tyler has to cough to clear his throat again. He shrugs, shoulders so tight they hardly move. “And I’m sorry that I – I had this idea of what we should be. What we were supposed to be.” 

Tanner stills. 

Tyler takes a deep breath. He can see his father coming home, and his mother in the kitchen. He can see his vision of his own made-up future, with his own house, his own bedroom, that over and over again in his mind he had put Tanner in. The cheerful kitchen table that in his dreams they had sat around. The shared life he had longed for. 

All of it had been based on the perfect life he thought his father had built. And all of that had turned out to be lie. 

Tyler’s face burns. “I tried to force you into this stupid idea of how I thought things were supposed to be. I never listened to what you wanted. I’m sorry.” 

When Tyler lifts his eyes, Tanner is blinking rapidly. He brings one hand up to scrub quickly at his face. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t get up, either. 

They sit for a minute, both of them quiet, air filled with nothing but the sound of both of them sniffling. 

Tanner laughs after a moment, strained around the edges, but he’s leaning towards Tyler, a familiar wry amusement in his face. His expression says everything Tyler is thinking: about how they’re both so bad at this. Both so bad at trying to say what they feel, and that their inability is making this conversation just as wrenching and ridiculous for him as it is for Tyler. Tanner blows out a long sigh. “Did you know Doc Lavoie is the conductor of the choir?” 

The change of subject startles Tyler out of his melancholy. He shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t even there was a choir here.” 

“There is.” Tanner pauses, offering another lopsided smile. “I joined.” 

Tyler blinks, startled again, but then – one of the first things he ever saw Tanner do was sing. “I talked to Alex – she mentioned the guitar lessons.” 

Tanner nods. “I’m not very good, but.” His shoulders lift in a loose shrug. “It helps.” 

He doesn’t say what exactly it helps with, but there’s something raw in his voice that makes Tyler need to clutch his hands together under the table again to keep from reaching out. And he looks different than he did on the dock with Alex and Sam, softer. More uncertain, but more honest. “I’m really glad,” Tyler says carefully. They’re talking, but it still feels like any wrong move could send Tanner scrambling for the door. “You know that I – I care about you.” 

Tanner gives him an unsteady smile. He ducks his head and emits a chuckle that sounds more like nerves than anything else. “It’s, uh – it’s hard for me to talk about this kind of stuff. Doc Lavoie says our brains get trained to focus on the bad stuff.” He shakes his head, shrugging. “Something about survival and eating poison berries. I don’t know, I only understand about half of what she says, I just – ” He stops and looks at Tyler, and Tyler doesn’t dare even breathe. 

Tanner swallows. “Being here was so hard. I didn’t understand why. So many bad things happened, but everything was going so fast – ” 

He stops. Tyler watches him take one breath, then two. 

“We stopped moving and everything caught up with me. Not just what happened in Chicago or Manchester. Old stuff. Everything. And I didn’t know how to be what you wanted. I didn’t – I don’t – know how to do that. I was scared.” He trails off. 

“Scared of what?” Tyler asks. 

Tanner laughs that nervous laugh again and looks up at the ceiling. His eyes are red. “This isn’t easy for me to talk about.” He pauses again. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t – have to,” Tyler offers. 

Tanner smiles at him, sad but warm, and Tyler’s chest tightens. Tanner says, “Scared of having to live life, I guess. Doc says some people have to practice being happy before they get good at it. She says me more than most people. But I’m working on it.” 

When he stops speaking, it’s so quiet, Tyler thinks time must be frozen around them, or that everyone has left the Lake, that they’re alone for miles. “I’m glad you’re – I’m happy for you. I think it’s good you’re trying.” Tyler stops himself and squeezes his eyes shut. “When I was in Toronto, I was so scared I was going to come back here and you’d be gone.” 

“I didn’t know if you were coming back.” Tanner’s lips press together hard for a moment. “I’m glad you came back. I didn’t know what to do when you weren’t here. I had to figure it out. And that was good.” He looks up. “But now I’m glad you’re back.” 

Tyler looks back at him. “Really?” 

Tanner looks down, but Tyler can still see a small smile on his face. Wobbling and unsteady, but there. “Of course. Just because you went away for a month, doesn’t mean all that other stuff didn’t happen, you know?” 

Tyler’s throat hurts. “Do you mean the bad stuff, or – ” 

“Both,” Tanner says. “All of it. I mean all of it.” 

 

 

Even days later, thinking about the uncertain line of Tanner’s smile is enough to thoroughly and completely derail Tyler from whatever he’s working on. Obsessing over what it meant, or what it hadn’t meant has caused more than one bolt to go missing as it rolled unattended across the floor of the garage, has meant more than one book has stayed open to the same page, utterly unread, for hours at a time. 

Okay, so they messed up their first attempt at a relationship. But lots of people mess up relationships. That’s normal. People meet, and then they’re friends, and then they start dating, and then they’re together. And then some of those couples fight and break up. 

And some of those couples get back together. 

Or, at least, that’s Tyler’s theoretical understanding of how it works. It’s not like Tyler has any real experience on this front. He doesn’t think how they got together the first time really counts as dating; he doesn’t think he and Tanner ever would have really qualified as even friends. 

So basically he has no idea how relationships with someone work if you’re not on the run from multiple parties who are trying to kidnap or kill one or both of you. 

Tyler sighs. Theoretically, he’s taking advantage of having the library to himself tonight to take notes on this book he found about the history of ciphers, but in reality he’s mostly working the pencil lead into a fine point by shading increasingly large sections of the paper he has in front of him a solid gray. 

The lodge is dead quiet tonight, which somehow makes it extra easy to get distracted. Mike and Jeff have disappeared on a multi-day fishing trip. Tyler thinks Jeff’s newfound willingness to spend time on a boat is less about having learned to enjoy being out on the water, and more about being a last ditch effort to try to get prevent Mike from driving everyone at the Lake crazy. He’s still snapping at everyone that crosses his path, as if the irritation of being in Toronto hasn’t quite left his system. 

But fishing certainly hasn’t left much time for him to work on a plan for the Assembly. Tyler scowls. 

Irene was called away earlier this evening to deal with some crisis having to do with the dining hall’s walk-in fridge, which leaves just Tyler and Mike’s dad rattling around in the innkeepers’ quarters of the lodge. And since Mike’s dad is more hermit-like than his wife, or his son, and even gives Jeff a run for his money in terms of his love for solitude, that just leaves Tyler. 

Tyler drops his pencil and looks at the silent library around him. 

What exactly does it mean that Tanner came and talked to him? And that he sounded like himself, and not like he was playing at being a stranger? Maybe when he said he was glad Tyler was back, he meant he wants for them to be friends. 

Maybe he meant he wants more than that. 

Tyler hasn’t sought him out, but maybe he could drop by Tanner at work, but just, like, super briefly on his way to somewhere else? Or maybe he could ask Alex to – 

Tyler pictures what Alex’s face might look like if he asked her to pass some sort of note onto Tanner and immediately drops the idea. Even if she and Tanner are hanging out all the time now. Even if they are all now _friends_. Tyler pauses, digging the pencil lead into the page. Jealousy curls and twists his stomach. It’s not like Tyler is particularly good at making friends; it doesn’t seem fair that Tanner should have fallen in so easily with the few Tyler has. 

He looks back down at the book in front of him. The chapter title is, for some reason that Tyler hasn’t figured out, _Hello World!_ Tyler doesn’t have even the vaguest memory of what the last chapter was about. 

This is hopeless. He gets up and heads into the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich. He takes the book with him. Maybe it’ll be less indecipherable in a different room. 

The food does help, at least a little. Tyler chews absently, skipping ahead to page through tables of command lines and logic flow charts. He occasionally jots down an acronym to look up later, but only with the very vaguest sense of hope. He still doesn’t have a real plan. He still doesn’t know what half these words mean, and he’s starting to strongly suspect figuring it out is going to require learning a whole new language. 

Which is going to take time. 

Tyler’s mind drifts back to Toronto, and McCarthy, and Dean, and the looming deadline of the next Assembly. 

Time he hasn’t got. 

The sound of the buzzer – the one that long ago guests would have used to summon the innkeeper to the front desk – rouses him from these depressing thoughts. He looks around the kitchen, but it is, of course, empty. No one to answer the buzzer but him. Tyler puts his book aside and wanders out to the lobby. 

A man in a cap is waiting at the desk, damp from the rain that’s falling outside. He has a large sack slung over his shoulder. 

It’s the mail courier. Even if Tyler doesn’t recognize this guy’s face, he recognizes the look of someone who spends a lot of time on the road. 

Used to be Tyler would judge somebody for having dirty boots. Now he’s a lot more likely to cast a sidelong glance if they’re clean. 

The man in the lobby is in no danger of having clean anything. His boots and pants are mud-splattered. His cap is damp, his jacket sun-bleached. He eyes Tyler up and down. “Where’s Irene?” 

“She’s dealing with some – ” Tyler hadn’t really caught the details. “Some kind of fridge incident.” He points at the bag. “Is that our mail?” 

The man hikes the bag further up on his shoulder. He lays a hand on it, protective. “Well then what about Mike?” 

Tyler narrows his eyes. “Mike’s out.” 

This causes a befuddled expression to cross the man’s features. 

Tyler’s growing impatient. “If that’s the mail for the innkeeper’s suite, I can take it. I’m the one who deals with Mike’s mail, anyways.” 

The courier peers around Tyler like he’s hoping for some better option. The lobby remains empty. “Who are you?” 

“I’m Tyler,” Tyler says, as if that means anything. “I live here.” 

The courier’s skeptical expression is unchanged. 

“I do,” Tyler insists. “I sleep in the library.” 

Both of the courier’s eyebrows go up. “You sleep in the library?” And okay, yes, it does sound a little absurd, but it’s not like the Richards family et al.’s mail is some great treasure. It’s probably mostly hate mail for Mike that Tyler will end up reading anyway, and random books for Jeff that Tyler will end up shelving. Tyler rubs his temples. 

“Hey, wait.” The courier points a finger at Tyler, a spark of recognition in his voice. “Are you the guy that makes the List?” 

Tyler looks up, relieved. “Yes. That’s me. So can I have the mail, or – ” 

“I got a bone to pick with you.” The courier holds his hand up in front of him like he’s about to start counting off reasons. 

Tyler sighs. 

“For a while it was updating real good. Then it stopped entirely. Now it’s back to being slow again. What gives?” 

This has got to be why Jeff only ever worked on the List in the middle of the night. “Look, I’m the only one working on it at the moment. I’m doing my best.” Tyler glares at him. “I could be working on it right now if I wasn’t out here arguing with you.” 

The courier glowers back, and he still doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he hands Tyler the stack of mail. “Better be more updates by my next circuit through,” he mutters. 

Tyler carries the pile into the kitchen. He sorts it on the kitchen table. In addition to the books he expected for Jeff, and the large number of envelopes of assorted sizes for Mike, he also finds a series of small packets that rattle when shaken addressed to Mike’s father. Seeds, most likely, since he’s the gardener in the family. There is also assorted correspondence for Irene, and surprisingly, a letter for Tyler. 

The letter is addressed to him _c/o The Office of Representative Richards._

Tyler looks around the kitchen. He guesses this counts as an office. 

He stares at it for a long moment, then flips it over. 

The back is sealed with the clean, austere crest of the Union, every detail of the eagle’s talons on sharp display. And written underneath, clear as day, text that reads: _Office of the Executive Committee._

There’s no name on it, but there’s really only one person who would still use the seal of the Union and the letterhead of the Executive Committee who would be writing to Tyler. 

So it’s probably a good thing he’s alone, and that it was Tyler who collected the mail, because he doesn’t need Mike or anyone else asking questions about why he’s getting mail from Cedric McCarthy. 

Tyler tears it open. 

_Tyler Peter Toffoli_  
_Office of Representative Richards_  
_The Lake of the Woods, Blue & White _

_I am writing to wish you –_

Tyler scans to the bottom of the page. There’s nothing in the letter but a list of banal statements hoping Tyler is having a _peaceful and relaxing_ inter-session interlude. At the bottom of the page, McCarthy has signed off, _Cordially,_ then scrawled his name. 

The letter is anything but cordial. It’s really just an excuse to remind Tyler that Cedric McCarthy knows exactly where he is, and can reach out to him any time he wants. Even if Tyler doesn’t show up to Toronto for the next session, McCarthy wants him to know he’s in reach. 

Tyler studies the seal on the envelope again. Maybe McCarthy even wants Mike to be suspicious of Tyler. Maybe he wants Tyler alone and without allies. Whatever else it might mean, one thing that’s certain is that unless Tyler wants to spend the rest of his life hiding out, Tyler’s going to figure out something to tell him. 

He tucks the letter back into the envelope and pockets it, turning instead to flip through the mail that Mike received, looking to see if Cynthia had re-sent the documents from Stevens’ office, after Tyler had written her to request another set. 

Nothing from her yet, although most of the letters are from other representatives and bear variations on the color-coded provincial seals and crests their offices have adopted in an effort to look more official. Although some of them look like they were hastily thrown together by the first person they could find who could draw. And some of them look worse than that. Tyler sorts them into rough stacks of: _Friend_ , _Foe_ , and _We’ll See._

He pauses over one of the last of the letters. A long, thin envelope that bears no crest at all. It has no return address, no indication at all of who sent it. 

But the handwriting that forms the slanted lines and curls of the address is familiar. 

Deeply familiar. It’s the same handwriting that came on notes sent from Philadelphia and San Jose. On birthday cards that sometimes had hockey tickets tucked inside. And on one very carefully and thoroughly filled out end-of-season evaluation. 

That’s Dean’s handwriting. 

Tyler turns the envelope over in his hands. He holds it up to the light. 

The house is very still around him. 

Mike has never said how often he and Dean talk. He’s never told Tyler what they talk about. Deep down, Tyler doesn’t know if he would believe Mike if he did. 

Tyler studies the seal. Mike did say he should open mail they got from other Representatives. He could claim he thought this was one of them. He could claim he opened it by mistake. 

Of course, then Mike would know Tyler knows whatever’s inside the envelope. If Mike doesn’t know Tyler’s opened it, Tyler could wait, and see if Mike tells him what’s inside. Or even that Dean wrote. He’d be able to figure out how much Mike is really telling him. 

He taps the envelope against the table. He knows what he should do is put the letter away and try not to think about it. Tyler snorts. That isn’t likely. 

Fuck it. He deserves to know. 

Tyler puts the kettle on and when it’s steaming, he holds the envelope in the hot, damp air until the seal begins to give way. He bears the letter back to the table. 

_Michael,_

_Cell tower down again. Letters SOP until indicated otherwise._

_As soon as possible, I need the following from you. The most current numbers where applicable, although I expect some of these people will be harder to reach before the next Assembly than others._

_Thanks always –_

_D_

What follows is a list: 

_Doan – troop numbers; weapon cache sites_

_Thornton – cache site (moved after 12/22/12??)_

_Getzlaf – headcount & current reservoir access points_

_Whoever the new rep for the Blue & Green is: cell tower locations. Cache site updates. Headcount. _

_Iginla – current headcount (post eastward shift) weapon cache sites north of Calgary. New tower locations._

That’s it. That’s all it says. Tyler stares at the page, confused. Those are all strategic pieces of information. But if Dean wants to know, why doesn’t he just ask those people directly? If he wants to know as soon as possible, why go through Mike when it would take that much longer? Dean could have written to the people he listed. He could have just come to the Assembly himself. All these guys were there. They’re all on the same side. He could have just _asked._

It doesn’t make sense. 

Frowning, Tyler reads it once more, then re-seals the letter back inside its envelope the best he can and sticks it in the middle of Mike’s mail stack. 

It doesn’t make sense – unless Dean doesn’t want people to know that he wants to know. Tyler turns the list over in his head. Doan, Thornton, Getzlaf, and Iginla are all representatives that were sent to the Assembly. They all represent Player-affiliated provinces. 

Tyler pushes his long-forgotten sandwich and book out of the way. He traces an invisible map on the table top with his finger. 

And they all represent provinces that are near to, or border the Black. 

“What are you doing out there?” Tyler whispers. 

The empty kitchen doesn’t offer any response. There’s no way to know. No safe way to find out what Dean’s doing, or why he’s doing it. 

And the only thing Tyler knows for certain, is that Dean’s keeping secrets from a whole lot more people than just him. 

 

 

Tyler wheels his bike out into the sunshine. The sky is cloudless overhead, the first really beautiful day of spring, and every inch of the chrome that Tyler’s worked so hard over gleams. 

Buster follows a pace or two behind. “You check the choke?” 

Tyler doesn’t even have to hesitate. “Yes.” 

“Mirrors?” 

“Yep.” 

“Chain?” 

“Chain’s fine.” He looks back at Buster. “I ended up replacing it.” 

“You test it?” 

Tyler narrows his eyes at him, mock offended. “Of course.” 

Buster ignores his look. “Fluids?” 

Tyler gives him a smile this time. “Me or the bike?” 

Buster glares in response, but he’s all but bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

“You watched me check the fluids,” Tyler reminds him. 

“Yeah, but these are the things you need to think about before you ride. Every single time.” Buster’s voice is serious. 

Buster gave him the bike. It’s a little late for him to be worrying about Tyler’s safety now. 

“Tires?” 

“Also fine.” Tyler waits for what’s next, but Buster is silent. He looks back. “Is that it?” 

“That’s it.” Buster makes a sweeping gesture of invitation towards the bike. 

The prospect of riding the thing, now that it’s right in front of him, seems suddenly daunting. “Wait, maybe you should ride it first – ” 

“Why would I ride it? It’s your bike.” Then Buster takes pity on him, coming up to stand next to him. “Just take it down the driveway. Up, around, and back again.” He indicates the oval road that runs from the garage up toward the main lodge before looping back. “It’s no parking lot, but it’s what we’ve got. Pay attention. Look where you want to go. Just like we talked about.” 

Buster seems to think just because he knows how the engine goes together that he’s not going to drive straight into a wall or something. “You know I can’t even drive a car, right?” 

“Even better,” Buster says. “No bad habits to unlearn. You’ll take to counter-steering like a duck.” 

Tyler is still skeptical. “Like a duck to water, or like a duck to motorcycle driving?” 

Buster laughs. “You know every part of this thing. Go ahead. Start her up.” 

Tyler puts the bike in neutral. He squeezes the clutch. Gives it some gas. The engine coughs and sputters. The air smells ominously like fuel. 

“She’s just temperamental,” Buster says. “You’ve just gotta develop a feel for it, is all.” 

Tyler tries again. This time, the engine growls to life. He looks over at Buster, and sees him smiling. Buster’s mouth moves but Tyler can’t hear him over the noise. Buster makes a gesture, pointing, meaning clear: 

_Go._

Tyler eases forward. His feet skim the ground at first and then he’s moving fast enough to use the footpegs. He picks up a little speed on the road, not that fast, not fast at all, really. But it’s enough to feel the wind start to push his hair back from his face. More than enough to put a grin on his face. 

He makes two loops before Buster holds up a closed fist. 

Tyler brings the bike to a stop next to him. He cuts the engine. 

“How’s she feel?” 

“Good.” Tyler’s voice shakes. He can feel the adrenaline buzzing in his chest, racing along under his skin. “Can I take her out on the road?” 

Buster looks at him. “Tyler. She’s your bike. You can take her wherever you want.” 

_Holy shit_ , Buster’s right. He could go anywhere. Tyler looks down at the bike, and then over to where the Lake’s road exits the property and winds into the trees. 

And beyond that, the whole world opens. Tyler feels a grin start to stretch across his face. 

“I don’t suppose you’re interested in waiting until we can scrounge up a helmet?” But Buster’s voice is resigned, like he already knows the answer. 

Tyler survived Union guns shooting at him, crazy hill-people who wanted to kidnap him, a thousand mile road trip, and the booby-trapped streets of Chicago. Tyler walked into a Union detention facility and walked out again untouched. Like hell he’s waiting for a helmet. “Nope.” 

Buster sighs. “Yeah, I remember when I was immortal, too. Be careful out there.” 

Tyler brings the engine to life again. He rides, slow and careful out to the guardhouse that marks the Lake’s interior perimeter. He waves at the guard. And then he’s out, with nothing but road ahead of him. 

The bike heats up underneath him, and the sun flickers across the chrome. He drives through the dappled shadows of the trees, cool pine-scented air flowing in streams all around him. He keeps it moderate for a few minutes, adjusting to the hum in his bones, to the way the bike follows him when he turns. 

Then he opens the throttle, and the trees blur into green streaks and the wind whips tears from the corner of his eyes. There’s no room for worrying. There’s no room for thought. There’s nothing but the wind and the road. Tyler crouches down, closer to the heady roar of the engine. The curves of the road feel sharper than they ever did in a car, the grade more exaggerated. He comes out from under the trees and the sun is a sudden, bright warmth on his back, and Tyler could go for miles and miles and miles and never get tired of this. 

But he does turn back. He rides out as far as he dares, but the sun is going to dip behind the trees before long, and to be honest, he’s still not sure if the gas gauge is working right. He slows, and turns for home. 

The sound of his approach brings Buster out of the garage. 

Tyler cuts the engine, and Buster grins, probably half in relief, although Tyler is sure he’d never admit it. 

Buster asks, “How was it?” 

Tyler shakes his head, his whole body humming, too jittery and too jacked on adrenaline to do anything but laugh. 

Buster laughs too. “Good. Let’s get her put away.” 

The shadows are starting to stretch as Tyler walks the bike to its spot on the shop floor. His hands are still trembling as he pulls his gloves free. He looks at Buster. “You stayed late just for me? I’m touched.” The first real words he’s managed. 

Buster’s look in response is sly. He still doesn’t confess to waiting up, just shakes his head, and says, “And now I’m taking off. I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

Tyler grins. Even after the bike is tucked away for the night, he can’t stop smiling. Small bursts of laughter keep bubbling up his throat, and the world is suffused with a sense of joy. A sense that something wonderful has happened. Something miraculous and great. And he’s on fire with the need to tell someone. 

Alex and Sam are off today, and it’s not quite dinner time yet. The grassy quad in front of him is empty of all but a few faraway figures. Tyler moves without thinking, heading down the hill, at a quick walk at first, but gravity and exhilaration push him into a jog. At the bottom, he beelines for where he can see the greenhouse workers finishing up for the day. 

He spots Tanner at the utility sink attached to the exterior of the greenhouses. Hands and arms sunk in the deep, steel basin, washing up in preparation for heading to dinner. “Tanner.” 

Tanner turns at the sound of his name. “Tyler.” He looks surprised to see Tyler standing there, jittering in front of him. “You look – windblown.” 

Tyler feels windblown. The skin of his face feels tight, his hair stiffened from sweat and sun. He grins, so wide his face aches. “The motorcycle works.” And that’s all he can get out before he starts to laugh. Tyler dissolves – mad giggles erupting from his throat. He bites down on a knuckle in an attempt to stifle them, but the sounds continue to slip out around his fingers. 

Tanner dries his hands, stepping away from the sink, still blinking like he’s trying to find his bearings. “You – rode it? Really?” 

And maybe, just maybe, Tanner sounds impressed. Tyler’s grin widens even further, and he nods, still too adrenaline-flooded to speak. 

A smile steals across Tanner’s face. “How was it?” 

Tyler starts laughing again as soon as he pulls his hand away from his mouth. “Amazing.” 

Tanner laughs. He reaches out, one hand stretching forward to touch Tyler’s hair. And then his cheek. 

Tyler goes still. His chest feels close to bursting, his skin overheated. He shivers unsteadily, like a machine out of tune, and the strain of holding still feels like he’s trying to hold back a quaking dam, like trying to hold up the weight of the entire world. 

Tanner’s touch lingers on Tyler’s skin, his eyes on Tyler’s face, for one incredibly long instant. And then he pulls back. He shows Tyler his fingertips, and how they have come away from Tyler’s skin coated with grit and dirt from the road. “You’re a mess,” Tanner says. But his voice comes out breathless and half-choked. 

Tyler swallows. “It was amazing. It was fucking awesome, and I just – ” He needed to tell someone. He wanted to tell someone. And he wanted to tell Tanner first. Of everyone in the world, without even thinking about it, he wanted it to be Tanner he told first. But spilling his guts right here probably isn’t the right move. He limits himself to, “I just wanted to tell someone.” 

Tanner’s smile is so soft. His hand half-reaches again toward Tyler before he lets it drop. He hesitates, eyes still on Tyler’s face. “Tomorrow night there’s an open mic thing. Alex is gonna perform. Would you like to go?” 

“Yes,” Tyler says, every inch of him leaning into the word. “Yes.” 

 

 

Milder weather means the show is held on the broad deck that overlooks the water. Earlier today, Tyler, spent way too long trying to decide what to wear. An exercise that is especially stupid, given that Tyler’s wardrobe is pulled almost entirely from the giant stash of donated clothes that have made their way to the Lake. The same second-hand stuff they all have: t-shirts from long defunct businesses and schools, flannels in a hundred different patterns of plaid. Plus it’s not like Tyler has that many clothes, so anything he could possibly wear, Tanner has seen at least a dozen times. 

He still spends long enough in front of the full-length mirror in the front hall that Jeff gives him an odd look as he walks past on his way to the kitchen. 

Tyler is still there when Jeff crosses back in the other direction. Tyler’s not looking, but he hears Jeff’s footsteps slow. Tyler makes the mistake of meeting his eyes in the mirror, and Jeff’s eyes are narrowed, he looks right on the verge of asking Tyler something, which means that it’s definitely time for Tyler to leave, before he can get trapped into that particular conversation. 

He grabs his jacket, tossing a hurried wave at Jeff. “Gotta run.” He makes for the door. It’s not running away. He’s not ducking Jeff’s questions. Not really. It’s more like – Tyler’s just delaying that conversation until it absolutely needs to happen. 

He heads down the front steps. Alex is performing, which makes Tyler feel like he ought to bring some sort of congratulatory offering. That’s what one does for performers at their performances, right? He can’t exactly get a hold of roses, but the grassy slope that runs down to the woods is covered in small blue and white wildflowers. Tyler gathers these into a makeshift bouquet, then helps himself to a couple of iris from the flower beds in front of the lodge, making a silent apology to Mike’s father as he does. 

Tyler arrives at the deck to find a makeshift stage set up. A broad assortment of lawn furniture, pillows, and even a couple of extremely bedraggled couches have been dragged outside to form not so much rows as a seating free for all. The effect is that the deck looks like some strange outdoorsman’s take on a bohemian salon. It’s much more informal than he had imagined, and Tyler feels silly holding the flowers in his hands. 

Sam spots him before he can get nervous enough to leave or ditch the flowers, waving him down from a couch that’s tucked off to the far side of the deck, half in the shadow of overhanging limbs of an old cypress. 

Tanner is sitting next to him. 

Tyler makes his way carefully among the islands of lawn chairs and floor pillows to get to them. He sits tentatively on one side of the couch, putting Sam in the middle. 

Sam grins. “Hey! I’m really glad you could come. Tanner says you’ve been working a ton lately.” 

That’s – true. Tyler has been putting in a lot of hours at the garage and library both, but he’s more interested in the fact that Tanner seems to have noticed. And that apparently it’s something he’s talked to Sam about. 

On Sam’s far side, Tanner seems to be very carefully not looking at him. 

Tyler manages to smile back at Sam. “Yeah, I’m – keeping busy. I’m doing some work for Mike, and Jeff doesn’t have as much time to work on the List lately, plus I’m trying to do some research on the Union’s encryption, but, well – ” He trails off. Nobody here is gonna be interested in his failed attempts to teach himself programming languages. He steals another glance at Tanner, who still isn’t really looking at him. “I’m just happy to finally get a chance to hear Alex play. What’s she going to perform, do you know?" 

Sam turns to Tanner, who looks startled to be consulted. Tanner blinks. “She’s – been working on some original stuff, some bluesy stuff. But, uh – probably some old rock covers if the crowd gets antsy.” 

Sam leans over, stage-whispering in Tyler’s ear, “Alex is kind of the ringer – she plays between acts that they don’t know if they’re any good yet or not.” 

Tyler nods. They both seem comfortable here, familiar. He gets a pang of jealousy that Tanner is the one who knows what Alex is going to play. And that Tanner seems most comfortable talking to Sam. 

The performances are a mixed bag. Some good, some bad. Although in all honesty, Tyler spends more time watching Tanner, who seems relaxed, or at least is acting relaxed, despite the crowd. Although their seating location now strikes Tyler as strategic, as it puts them far off to the side, so nobody is directly behind them, the crowd and the stage both in sight. 

Tanner’s eyes stay fixed on the performers. He applauds or laughs or claps along with the crowd as it’s called for, and between acts he leans over and discusses people Tyler doesn’t know and their musical choices with Sam. 

Both of them smile politely when Tyler interjects, or asks a question. But the conversation moves to music, where Tyler doesn’t have much to contribute. Tanner asks Sam something too low for Tyler to catch, and Sam answers by fingering the neck of an invisible guitar, demonstrating something that is accompanied by a low-voiced explanation, and Tyler watches carefully as Tanner’s fingers respond with a slower approximation. 

He must have got it, because Sam slaps Tanner on the shoulder, and Tanner smiles. 

Tanner’s happy. Or happier, at least. Tyler’s stomach twists – not that Tanner’s happiness is bad. And the sudden ache in Tyler’s chest isn’t even over the fact that Tanner’s contentment finally came about when Tyler wasn’t there, as if Tyler’s absence is what allowed it. Maybe that’s part of it, but mostly, Tyler is jolted by the realization that he had forgotten what Tanner looks like when he’s happy. It’s been so long since he’s seen it. 

And he’s keeping Tyler at a distance again. Maybe Tyler imagined the way he smiled that night in the library. Or maybe Tyler’s mind just gave it more significance than Tanner ever meant it to have. 

The pit of Tyler’s stomach feels like it’s dropped about a thousand miles below his feet, and surrounded by a cheering, oblivious crowd, his heart catches in his throat. 

He barely hears Alex call out from the stage, “Thank you, thank you. That’s all for tonight. If you want to get on the list for next time talk to Mitchell, because you know I can’t keep track of that shit.” She gives a final wave to the crowd. 

“Okay.” Sam rises, and Tyler rivets his attention back to him in time to catch Sam jerk his thumb towards the stage and say, “I’m going to go give them a hand packing up.” 

Tanner asks him, “You guys need help? 

“Naw.” Sam grins. “Nobody brought drums.” He winks, then he turns to Tyler. “It was good to see you. You should come out more often.” 

It still feels like a stone is caught in Tyler’s throat. Tyler holds the flowers out to Sam. “Yeah. Will you tell Alex I really enjoyed the show, and give these to her for me?” 

Sam looks uncertain. “Of course. But – you can come back if you want, give them to her yourself?” 

“No, I – ” Tyler shakes his head. He can feel color coming into his cheeks. “That’s okay. I should probably take off soon anyway.” 

“Suit yourself.” Sam heads towards the group of people currently sorting and stacking the electrical equipment. Tyler watches him leave, and watches the rest of the crowd starting to filter out. He watches the moths that have gathered, watches them circling, buzzing and bumping up against the outdoor lights. He looks anywhere but at Tanner. 

Above them, the stars are starting to come out. 

Next to him, Tyler hears the creak of springs and feels the dip of the cushions as Tanner shifts. 

When he finally looks over, Tanner is wide-eyed looking back at him. Like he doesn’t have any idea what to say, either. 

Tyler clears his throat. “So – are you going to be up on stage next time?” 

Tanner laughs. “Me? No. I’m not anywhere near good enough yet.” 

They lapse back into silence. Tyler racks his brain for something else to say, but his thoughts keep getting interrupted by the awareness of how close Tanner is next to him. How little space there is between them, and what he’d looked like earlier, smiling. “It’s good that you’re coming out and – having a good time.” God, that sounds patronizing. “I just meant – never mind.” 

Tanner straightens, retreating further back into the couch. “It was a good crowd tonight.” 

Tyler is such an idiot. His stomach feels sour. He takes his cue from Tanner and shifts away, putting more space between them. “Yeah? Do they do these – every month?” 

Tanner nods. “Sometimes more often, depending on how many people want to play.” 

Tyler bites his lip. Almost all of the crowd has filtered out, and the breakdown crew is starting to remove the seating around them. “Well. It’s late.” He makes a vague gesture. “I should probably get back.” 

Tanner looks at him for a moment. “Can I walk you home?” 

Tyler blinks, startled; he stumbles over his words. “Sure. Of course.” 

The walk side by side on the path back towards the lodge. It’s not far, but Tyler’s not in any hurry, and Tanner seems content to match his slow pace. 

Tanner says, “It was nice of you to bring Alex flowers.” 

Tyler shoves his hands down in his pockets. “I don’t know. I just thought – it’s a thing you do when someone is performing, right? Or, at least I thought it was a thing. It used to be at thing.” Tyler kicks a rock so that it scuttles down the path in front of them. “Did you know people used to like, say things with flowers? Like, roses meant love and daisies meant friendship or something. There was a whole language. My parents used to joke about giving each other cattleyas. But, I mean, I never got why, it’s just some kind of fancy orchid, I think. When my dad did bring home flowers it was always lilac because my mom liked the way they smelled and she couldn’t ever get them to grow in our yard.” Tyler pauses, thinking for a moment. “I have no idea what those blue and white flowers I gave Alex mean. I think the white ones might be trillium. I don’t know what the blue ones are. I hope it doesn’t mean something awful.” 

Tanner snorts. 

Tyler’s rambling. “Sorry.” 

Tanner stops walking. He looks at Tyler. “No, I just – forgot what you’re like.” 

Tyler doesn’t know if Tanner means he forgot that Tyler was boring or weird or that he sometimes talks too much about flowers, but he’s smiling at Tyler and Tyler’s whole body goes warm. 

Tanner clears his throat. “Actually, when you mentioned me being up on stage – Alex keeps threatening to drag me up there to sing backup for her.” 

“You should. You’d be good.” 

Tanner gives him a skeptical look and starts walking again. “Yeah? How would you know?” 

Tyler falls in step with him. “I don’t know. You were a good set-up man when we played hockey together. How different can singing be?” 

Tanner laughs again, bright and surprised. “That’s hardly the same thing.” He looks sidelong at Tyler. Some of his mask seems to have slipped away, and he’s so close that their shoulders brush. Maybe that’s accidental. Maybe it’s not. 

“Well.” Tyler’s voice comes out a little thick. “I’d like to hear you sing, anyway.” 

Tanner’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I’m really not anything special. But I feel good when I sing.” 

The stone in Tyler’s throat is back. He tries to swallow. “Earlier, when I said it was good that you were coming out and having a good time – I wasn’t, like I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do, or how to live your life, or anything. I just meant that I’m happy that you seem – happier. Here. That’s all.” He lifts a hand in a vague, explanatory gesture, but he doesn’t know what else to say, and he lets it fall. “Sorry.” 

They’ve reached the lodge, and Tanner drifts to a halt next to him. “You don’t – you don’t have to apologize for saying you care about me.” Tanner hesitates. His hands are stuffed into his pockets; his eyes are down, and it feels weird to be so unsure with someone Tyler knows so well. Tanner speaks again, and his voice is so soft it’s almost lost in the noise of cicadas and bullfrogs emanating from the lake. “I still care about you.” He looks up. His face is partially in shadow, but he’s close enough for Tyler to make out bright eyes and a half-hidden smile. 

Tyler’s eyes get stuck on the curl of Tanner’s lips long enough that – too long. Tyler makes himself look down. “I – I don’t – ” There’s a million things he could say here: _I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know if this is the right thing. I don’t know what I’m doing. I never know what I’m doing._

Tyler shifts. A nervous laugh is trying to work its way free of his throat. “I guess I don’t know how you feel, but – ” His stomach roils, and his nerves almost won’t let him finish. “If you ever wanted to try again, us being together, I mean. I would want that.” He would. He does. He risks a look up at Tanner’s face. 

Tanner looks uncertain, and then he looks down, his shoulders curling in. “I think last time we maybe rushed into things I wasn’t comfortable with.” 

That’s fair. That’s totally fair, and Tyler makes himself nod, trying to ignore the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. 

Tanner lifts his gaze. “Maybe if we could – take things a lot slower this time?” 

“Yeah?” Tyler’s voice comes out thick. 

Tanner nods. 

Tyler makes himself breathe. He makes himself speak calmly. “We can take things as slow as you want.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

The corner of Tanner’s mouth lifts. “I said so, didn’t I?” He leans in, very quick. His lips brush against Tyler’s face, just at the corner of the mouth. “Goodnight.” 

 

 

Tyler lets himself into the lodge. His feet carry him to the kitchen without any input from his head, which feels like a distantly-attached balloon, floating up among the clouds. His heart is still thudding a mile a minute in his chest, his skin still buzzing from Tanner’s fleeting press. 

The kitchen smells like baking, and Mike glances up as Tyler drifts in. “Good timing.” He points with his fork at a pie plate sitting in the middle of the table. “Eat some of this so I don’t eat all of it.” 

Tyler eyes him for a moment. Mike hasn’t said anything about the letter from Dean. He must have seen it though, because it’s gone from the stack. 

But looking at him, Mike’s eyes are dark and clear, as if he has nothing in the world to hide. 

From across the kitchen, Jeff snorts. He reaches into the cabinet and hands a plate to Tyler. He lets Tyler make it all the way back to the table before he asks, “Were you out with Tanner?” 

Jeff’s question is mild, but Tyler can hear a pressing edge in his voice. Tyler freezes for a beat, midway through the act of slicing. He still hasn’t worked out exactly what he wants to say about Tanner, or what’s going on between them, yet. Mostly because that would require knowing what’s going on between them. Which Tyler does not. 

Tyler hesitates, buying time by focusing on cutting his piece of pie free. “We went to the open mic night with some friends.” 

He’s trying for casual, but apparently he didn’t quite hit it, because Mike has noticed that something’s up. His eyes move back and forth between Jeff and Tyler, brow creased. “Tanner who?” 

Tyler’s not facing Jeff, but he can picture the pained expression he’s making. 

_“Tanner.”_ Jeff repeats. 

Mike blinks, face momentarily blank. “Oh. _Oh,_ right.” 

Tyler hears Jeff moving behind him, until he’s just over Tyler’s shoulder. Jeff says, “You came in grinning, and the back of your neck is as red as that pie filling, so I assume things went well?” 

Tyler tugs the back of his collar up roughly. “If this is interrogation pie, I’m taking it to my room.” 

“No interrogation. I’m just curious.” Jeff’s voice is still mild, but Tyler knows he’s thinking about the night Tyler and Tanner broke up, and Tyler had sobbed for three hours straight, right in this very kitchen. Tyler winces at the memory. 

Mike’s fork scrapes noisily across his plate. “Well, if that’s back on again, I guess we’re gonna have to look into getting you an actual bed. I don’t know what you can accomplish on that cot. No matter how motivated you are.” 

“ _God_ ,” Tyler says, just at the same time Jeff hisses, “ _Mike.”_

Mike looks up, face innocent, mouth full. “What?” 

“We’re not – ” Tyler clears his throat, and now he can feel how red his face is. “Things aren’t – like that. We’re friends, and we’re taking things slow.” 

“Slow, huh?” Jeff doesn’t sound particularly convinced. 

“Yes,” Tyler repeats. “ _Slow.”_

Jeff hums, and Mike is looking at Tyler with curious eyes. Tyler feels a sharp curl of irritation. He doesn’t have to spill his guts if he doesn’t want to. It’s not like either of them have been straight with him. Mike hasn’t mentioned the letter. Nothing about the contents of Dean’s letter make sense. Mike won’t even give him any straight answers about what he has planned for the Assembly. 

Mike looks at him again, and a paranoid shiver goes up Tyler’s spine. What if Mike knows he read the letter? The letter Tyler’d gotten from McCarthy is safely hidden, but what if there were others that Mike or Jeff intercepted? Tyler’s stomach starts an uneasy churn. 

Tyler forces the thought away. This doesn’t have anything to do with that. But still: it’s not fair. It’s not fair that they expect him to tell them everything, when they’re lying to him. Both of them. If only by omission. Tyler can feel his face heating even further. 

“What exactly does taking things slow mean?” Jeff presses. 

Tyler’s skin feels like it’s burning. “That’s it.” Tyler rises, clutching his plate close to his chest. “I’m taking this to my room.” 

 

 

Jeff gives him about an hour to cool down. Which is enough time for Tyler to finish his pie, which, despite his irritation, is still good, and to try and fail to write some suggested edits into the latest version of the Assembly plan he’s come up with. 

Tyler flips through the pages, staring at the strikethroughs and the messy notes in the margins. No matter how he writes it, he can’t make the pieces come together into a coherent whole. He can’t find a way to make what Mike wants – independence and for the Lake to be left alone – to work with Stevens’ ideas about support for basic needs. 

It doesn’t help that Tyler needs to work her ideas into the draft in such a way that Mike won’t recognize them. Everything he’s written so far feels flimsy and convoluted, and he’s sure it’ll fall down at the barest hint of pressure from McCarthy. 

Sighing, Tyler pushes the plan away. It would be different if he had leverage, or something McCarthy wanted, but he doesn’t. Or, more accurately, he _does,_ he just doesn’t know what that thing is. 

He turns to one of his cipher textbooks instead, but the words inside are just as impossible to understand as they’ve always been. Frustrated, Tyler shoves the book unceremoniously onto the floor. 

It’s not the book Tyler pissed at, but the thump is still satisfying. 

Tyler’s not sure who or what he’s pissed at. For more of the last hour, he would have said Jeff. But when Jeff peers cautiously around the library door, Tyler’s first instinct is to be glad to see him. 

And right on the heels of that thought is the hope that Jeff didn’t witness his hissy fit with the book. Tyler doesn’t need a lecture about being kind to books on top of everything else. 

“You mind if I come in?” Jeff asks. “Talk for a minute?” 

Tyler shrugs. “It’s your office.” 

“It’s also your room.” Jeff hesitates. “For the moment, anyway.” He doesn’t move from the doorway until Tyler shrugs again, and waves him in. 

Jeff pulls a chair up to the other side of the desk, taking a seat across from Tyler. “I’m sorry for prying. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

Tyler looks at him briefly, then looks away. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine.” Jeff echoes. He folds his hands on the desk. “But, it hasn’t been that long since Mike and I were in a similar place. Trying to figure things out. And I remember how hard it was. For me and Mike both.” His voice is low. “I worry about what you’re putting yourself though.” 

“You don’t have to worry. I won’t let it distract me. See?” His words come out pointedly sour, verging on petulant, and he runs his fingers over the stack of documents he pulled to add to Jeff’s List later. If he were being completely honest, he would tell Jeff those same documents have been sitting in that same spot for a couple days now, but – and Tyler thinks back to that letter from Dean – it’s not like anyone’s being completely honest with him. 

Jeff frowns. “Tyler, I’m not worried about whether you’re getting enough work done. I’m worried about you.” 

That makes the guilt kick in hard, and Tyler’s stomach twists. Maybe Mike hasn’t exactly been forthcoming, but the Richards did take him in without any questions when he arrived at the Lake. Jeff did let him work with him when Tyler needed to do something more than fix cars. And Jeff and Mike took him with them, when he needed to get away from the Lake. 

Tyler can still feel the irritation crawling under his skin, but it’s more of a raw, directionless flush of anger. He’s not even that mad at Jeff; he’s just mad. 

Which doesn’t make any sense. He had fun tonight. It was a good night. Tanner kissed him. 

Tyler just barely stops himself from touching his cheek. 

Jeff watches all this silently. 

Tyler sighs. “Look – I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot of things on my mind. I’m sorry I was rude.” 

Jeff’s gaze is level, unchanging. “You want to talk about any of it?” 

Yes, desperately. But also no, not at all. And the only response Tyler can think to make is a useless shrug. Utterly inadequate, plus it makes him look childish. 

Jeff doesn’t respond to the shrug. He just sits there. Like if he waits long enough, Tyler will break down and spill his guts like a kid. Which, in all fairness, is maybe how Tyler’s been acting. But a fresh spark of anger kindles at the thought that Jeff is just waiting him out, as if Tyler is just being petulant, as if he has no reason for how he’s behaving, no reason for not wanting to talk to Jeff, when that’s not true. Tyler’s got a reason – Tyler’s got a hundred reasons. Tyler looks him in the eye. “I don’t know if I can trust you.” 

Jeff sits back, startled. He looks surprised. And hurt. “Why?” 

Tyler shakes his head. One act of rebellion, and now his words are failing him again. All he knows, is that what he tells Jeff, he might as well tell Mike. And that Mike is talking to Dean, and lying by omission, and that no one will give him a straight answer about anything. His words tumble out too fast. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know why you and Mike let me hang around. I know it has to do with Dean, but I don’t know why Dean wants me here. I don’t know why he isn’t here, or if I should – “ Tyler bites his lip. He’s angry, but even that doesn’t feel like the heart of it. He’s just getting started, just scraping the surface of his anger. “Or if I shouldn’t be. I wouldn’t be here at all if my parents hadn’t just fucking left.” 

Tyler memorized the words of that letter – _I left my most precious possession in Manchester –_ but his dad isn’t acting like Tyler is precious to him. If Tyler was really precious, they wouldn’t have left him at all. Or they would have tried to reach out to him. Even once. But they haven’t, and suddenly, Tyler is furious. “They left me. As far as I know, they don’t care at all if I’m even alive. So I don’t know who to trust about anything. I don’t know. I don’t _know_ .” 

Jeff hasn’t moved. “That sounds hard.” 

Tyler scoffs. “You of all people don’t want to hear me complain about my dad. You know what he did. He was working for the people you fought against. You ought to be wishing him dead. Him and me too.” 

Jeff’s eyebrows go up at that, but otherwise, he looks impossibly calm. He takes a moment before he answers. 

In the silence, Tyler seethes. 

“If I held onto how angry I was about that,” Jeff begins carefully, “I would have killed myself a long time ago. I had to let it go.” 

Tyler’s throat goes tight. His dad helped do that. His dad helped the people that made Jeff Carter want to kill himself. And Tyler still loves him. Still wants to see him. Even if right now what he wants to do most is yell at him. “I’m just so frustrated. And tonight, Tanner – ” Tonight should have made him happy, but thinking about Tanner just brings a fresh wash of anxiety. “I don’t know what he wants. He says he – cares about me. And that he wants to take things slow, but I don’t what that means. Tonight, we talked about maybe trying again, but other times it seems like he doesn’t want to even be near me.” 

Tyler trails to a halt and laughs, bitter and hollow. His hand, which had been rubbing at his temple, falls, landing on a half-finished copy of the transition plan with a hard thump. “We’re on the eve of either making a new country or war, and I’m worried about a guy liking me.” 

Jeff nods. “Surprise. You’re human.” 

Tyler glances up at him, but nothing about Jeff’s face suggests he’s making fun of Tyler. He looks serious. “Thank you.” Tyler swallows, closing his eyes. His head aches and he rubs at his temples again. “Why isn’t my dad here for this? I keep thinking, he’s the one who should be here to tell me that. To help me, but he’s not.” 

“I don’t know, Tyler.” Jeff’s voice is low. “From what you’ve said, it certainly seems like he would be here if he could be.” 

Tyler shakes his head. “But then I think, I don’t know.” His chest feels tight. “I don’t know what he would have said about me being – about me and Tanner. Maybe he would have hated it. I really don’t know.” Tyler tries to take a breath to ease the choked feeling. “I’m really pissed off that he’s not here for me to ask.” 

Jeff says, “I’m sorry I don’t have any answers. These aren’t easy questions.” 

Tyler pulls one hand away from his head to better glare at Jeff. “Thanks, Jeff. Really. Thanks.” 

Jeff rolls his eyes at Tyler’s tone. “I mean – these aren’t easy questions, so, yeah, it makes sense that they’re bothering you. I can’t give you some magic answer, or tell you everything’s gonna be fine. But if you’re pissed about something you could try just saying you’re pissed. If Tanner’s confusing you, try telling him he’s confusing you.” He pauses, leaning in again. “And if I piss you off asking questions about Tanner, just tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. I’m gay and I played hockey, Tyler. I promise you I’ve heard worse.” 

Tyler laughs. 

“You get what I’m saying?” 

“I think so.” 

“You think?” 

Tyler sighs. He looks at Jeff, still leaning towards Tyler, now with the barest hint of a smile on his face. Tyler rolls his eyes. “I’m tired, Jeff. I need you to fuck off and mind your own business now.” 

Jeff’s grin widens. “You got it,” he says, and he squeezes Tyler’s shoulder on his way out. 

 

 

The only place where things feel easy, is on the back of his bike. 

And over the weeks that Tyler makes trips that take him further and further from the confines of the Lake, riding until the squeezing press inside his head disappears and his chest loosens. He blazes down the roads until the dread of his looming return to Toronto is impossible to think about, until his rage is swallowed up in the roar of the engine, and even the nervy, flickers of joy and anxiety that are born from his interactions with Tanner get washed away in the jetstream of air blowing past. 

The bike makes this holding pattern bearable. The open road is always a joy, even if he doesn’t know where to go. 

 

 

On sunny days, he and Tanner have started meeting for lunch on the slope that runs down from the garage toward the greenhouses. The incline is gentle enough they can sit without sliding, but just steep enough to grant a sweeping view of greenhouses and the outbuildings and the river beyond. 

Tyler stretches his legs out in front of him on the grass, out of the corner of his eye, he watches Tanner snag the abandoned sandwich crusts from Tyler’s plate. The sun is high and warm over head, and Tyler is sleepy from the heat and the food. He undoes his coveralls to the waist, stripping out of them, and pulls his t-shirt off to use as a pillow. Lying back with his hands laced behind his head, eyes closed, the sun feels good on his skin. 

Next to him, Tanner laughs. “It’s not _that_ warm.” 

“Shut up, it feels good.” Tyler cracks his eyes open and glances over at Tanner. 

Tanner’s looking at him. At Tyler’s shoulders, Tyler’s waist. His gaze is so intent, it takes him a beat to notice that Tyler has his eyes open. He looks away quickly, and Tyler can see color rise in his cheeks. 

When Tanner does look back, Tyler lifts a questioning eyebrow. 

Tanner coughs. “What? You think I only like you because you have, like, a million boring books memorized?” 

Tyler rolls onto his side, head propped in hand to look at Tanner. He throws a bit of plucked grass at Tanner, trying to look like he’s teasing. In reality, he’s stalling, because Tanner’s words make him feel like the bottom of his stomach has dropped out, nervy and anxious and heady with pleasure, all at once. He thinks Jeff would tell him to just tell Tanner that, but Tyler would like to see Jeff come up with the right way to say, _you make me feel everything all at once, all the time._

Tyler swallows, he settles on, “I like it when you say you like me.” 

Tanner looks away. He brushes at the blades of grass that have landed on his leg, then picks one of them up, shredding it into long strips. “Sorry I’m not better at doing it in front of people.” 

Tyler frowns. He wasn’t even sure Tanner was consciously aware of the difference between his forced brightness in front of others, and the unsteady shadowed version of himself he showed to Tyler. The difference in how Tanner treats him in front of people – the pain caused by Tanner’s careful distance from him and all the things he’d never say aloud is a lot less sharp now than it was in the beginning. And Tanner’s hardly the only one to have a complicated relationship with shame. But Tyler would rather have just the parts of Tanner he wants to give, rather than nothing at all, a hundred times out of a hundred. “I don’t care about that.” 

Tanner drops the grass and looks at him. “Yes, you do.” 

Which, okay, yes, Tyler does. The division between the Tanner that Tyler gets when they’re alone and the one he gets when they’re with other people is sharp and jolting. And Tyler should know better than to think his own discomfort would have gone unnoticed by Tanner. Tanner notices everything. 

Tanner sighs, and then rolls onto his back, looking up at the sky. “It’s just – I spent most of my life believing I should be punished for the way I want to touch you.” The sun is bright on his face; it brings out a flush in his cheeks. “For the way I feel about you.” 

Tyler can feel his own face color. His tongue is tied in a knot, his heart thumps hard in his chest. In this backward-forward dance they’ve been doing, this seems like the clearest step towards him Tanner has taken. “Okay, I do care. But you being happy matters more to me than being able to tell people that you’re my boyfriend.” Tyler stops, red from more than the sun now. “Not that you’re my boyfriend. Not if you don’t want to be. I’m not trying to rush things. I just meant as, like, an example. Theoretically. Because we’re not – you’re definitely not my boyfriend. You’re not anything like that. We’re just –” Tyler can hear the words spinning out of control, and yet his mouth seems to be operating without input from his brain. 

“Shut up, Tyler,” Tanner breaks in. But there’s affection in his voice, and when he turns his face towards Tyler, he’s smiling. 

Tanner reaches over and interlaces his fingers with Tyler’s. He doesn’t say anything, but that’s nice too. 

Tanner finally squeezes his hand. “Gotta go back to work in a couple minutes. And Buster’s probably already wondering where you are.” 

Right now, Tyler doesn’t want to think about anything except the feeling of Tanner’s fingers curving through his. “Yeah.” 

“Come on.” Tanner stands and reaches down to tug Tyler to his feet. 

He stands close to Tyler, and kisses Tyler once, very quickly, before he turns and heads down toward the greenhouses. 

Tyler, still light-headed, turns and walks up hill back to garage, pulling on his t-shirt as he goes. 

That afternoon is slow for once, and with no new cars in the shop, Tyler takes the opportunity to work on his bike. 

Tyler sprawls on the garage floor, trying to get eye-level with the spark plugs. The doors of the garage are up, and the sun spills in. Tyler wipes at the sweat that’s beading on his forehead. The last time he took the bike out, the engine had started a semi-regular pinging that didn’t sound promising. 

If it’s just the plugs, that’s one thing, but Tyler doesn’t want to lose the whole engine to a loose rod. 

But the spark plugs look fine. Tyler frowns at the machine. He really doesn’t want to take the whole thing apart again. Behind him, he hears Buster approach. 

“Problem?” 

Tyler pries a bolt. “The engine was noisy on my last ride.” 

“Plugs?” 

“Clean.” Tyler sighs. “I’m worried the connecting rod on the crankshaft is going.” 

“Oof. Did you check the tappets?” 

Tappets. Fuck, Tyler forgot about those. He sighs. “I forgot about those.” 

Buster laughs a little. “Cheer up, if that’s it, it’s a hell of a lot easier fix.” 

Tyler shakes his head. “I just feel like an idiot. I should have thought of that.” 

“You’re not an idiot. A motorcycle is a complicated machine.” 

Buster seems to have mastered it. Alex has mastered her truck. Sam could take apart and put back together anything in the shop blindfolded. “Eh, I think maybe it’s just me.” 

Buster laughs again. “You’re a self-important little shit, you know that?” His voice is warm. “Not everything is about you.” 

Tyler sits back, mouth curving, just a bit. “You’re definitely not the first to say that. My old teammates said that. My dad – ” Tyler’s dad had made an endless speeches about living a ‘life of service’ and he was never shy about making sure Tyler knew it wasn’t all about him – 

Tyler stops speaking. He stops working the engine bolt. He stops breathing. 

Buster gives his shoulder a shake. “Earth to Tyler. Come on, you going to check the tappets or just sit there?” 

Tyler stares at the bike unseeing, unblinking. All he sees instead is a half-finished letter on a scrap of a page. “Yeah,” his own voice sounds faded and far away. 

“Alright, well let me know if you need anything.” 

Tyler hears Buster’s steps retreat. 

Tyler is not his father’s _precious thing_. He never was. 

But he knows what is. And he knows exactly where he needs to go. 

 

 

Every spare minute of the day, Tyler now pours into the bike. He makes excuses not to take off when Buster frees them at the end of every work day, keeping it vague where he can. “Just a couple more things I want to fix today.” 

Alex has been giving him progressively darker looks every time he turns down her invitations to go out after work. Tanner came with her once, and the confusion in his face was almost enough to make Tyler drop everything. 

But in the end, he had gotten them to leave. The garage is quiet without anyone around. Still and silent enough for Tyler to get an occasional shiver of loneliness, but the metal of the engine is cool and comforting under his fingers, and Tyler has a whole new set of preparations to undertake. 

This is bigger than him now. This is about more than what Tyler wants. The information he has to go find could help all of them, more people than Tyler’s ever imagined. Maybe everyone. This is something important. This could shape their future. 

Buster’s noticed the change in him. He hasn’t said anything, but Tyler knows he’s noticed because whenever he’s on the shop floor, or even when he’s sitting at his desk, he watches Tyler work, gaze steady and attentive. 

Tonight, Tyler has the cylinder heads disassembled, pieces lying in careful rows on the floor in front of him. 

“I thought you decided against overhauling the engine?” 

Tyler starts. He hadn’t heard Buster’s approach. He glances at the clock while he’s trying to slow his heart. It’s well past the dinner hour. “What are you doing back here?” 

Buster nods towards the door. “I was walking past. I saw the light was still on.” He pauses. “I thought maybe one of you forgot to turn it off before you left. But here you are.” 

His eyes are steady on Tyler. Keeping secrets from Buster is going to be next to impossible, seeing as how it’s his garage. And because Tyler still really needs his help. “I decided to do it anyway,” Tyler cages. “And I want to do some body work. Do we have a welding torch?” 

Both of Buster’s eyebrows go up. 

Tyler points to a couple spots on the chassis. “I think I can get an auxiliary gas tank on here with a couple spot welds.” 

Buster frowns even harder. “Do you even know how to weld?” 

Like that’s ever stopped him. “I read a book about it.” 

“Yeah, if you’re set on this idea, we’re gonna get Ray from the machine shop to do it. He knows what he’s doing.” Buster pauses. “You realize the weight’s gonna slow her down a lot, right?” 

“Yeah, I’m gonna adjust the struts, too.” Tyler looks up at him. “I don’t need her to go fast. I need her to go a long way.” 

 

 

Every evening, he stays in the garage until hunger finally forces him out. He scavenges from what he finds in the Richards’ kitchen, and then it’s time to hit the library. 

But he’s put away the books on codes and encryption. He’s shelved the List and its names, and even the draft of the Assembly plan languishes abandoned and half-complete. He only has a few hours each night before his eyes get too heavy to focus on what’s in front of him, and Tyler uses them to study maps. 

Technically, his Union border pass is long expired. Which means to trek back across, he’s going to have to find a crossing site that’s populous enough to have decent roads, but small enough to lack a consistent Union presence. 

Which means he needs to go north. 

With his finger, he traces the line of highway 11 as it arcs east towards the border. It hits highway 117, which crosses into Union-held territory through a series of impossibly small towns, almost 400 miles north of Toronto, but it’s the only major road in the region for miles. Which means Tyler is willing to bet that the inhabitants have kept it in decent shape. 

It’s a hell of a wager, because if he gets all the way out there to find the road impassible, he’ll be stranded. Which is to say: fucked. 

The first leg will be the longest. He needs the bike to be able to make it from the Lake to Thunder Bay in one shot, because Thunder Bay is the first town big enough for him to disappear into. And from Thunder Bay, he needs to make it at least as far as Mattice, because there’s not a hell of a lot else in the way of civilization between those two places. Which means no gas. 

As far as getting supplies, the last of the cash Wayne gave him is still tucked away under his cot, but it’s not much. He needs to save it for buying fuel. Provisions for himself, he’s going to have to carry with him. It’s more weight, but it’ll also save him from having to interact with people. 

Because he’s also not going to have any cash for bribes if he does get caught. 

Being out there alone is an intimidating thought. He’s supposed to be staying at the Lake, waiting for Dean, preparing for the next Assembly. At the very least he’s supposed to be helping Mike and Jeff, or learning how to be a mechanic, he is _not_ supposed to be taking a cross country motorcycle trip by himself. Especially one where if something goes wrong he’ll be hundreds of miles from anyone he knows. Especially one where no one knows where he is. 

Because Tyler’s not going to tell anyone. 

Keeping his plans a secret feels weird. Mike and Jeff have noticed the dark circles under his eyes at breakfast. And before leaving the garage this evening, Alex had said, “I’d invite you to come to the show tonight, but there’s not a shot in hell you’d come, is there?” 

She hadn’t even tried to conceal the sharpness in her words, and Tyler winced. “Sorry.” 

“Just sorry?” She’d waited for his to say something else. To give some reason, and Tyler’s stomach churned, guilty and sour. 

“Just sorry,” he said. 

She walked away. 

But keeping the trip secret also feels safer. It’s not that Tyler doesn’t trust her or Tanner. He does, but – if something does happen, she’d have to tell someone. And after that, Tyler can’t guarantee it won’t get back to Dean. 

He knows exactly what Dean would say if he heard Tyler’s plans: Don’t go. I’ll send someone. I know the way better than you. Just sit tight. Be quiet. Be still. Wait. 

But Tyler’s done waiting. 

Dean had also said, _Information is power._ Followed closely by the implied, _And if you have it, give it to me._

This whole time, Tyler’s been trying to see the big picture, but there was a piece missing, and now Tyler knows where to find it. And he needs to find it first. Because if Tyler doesn’t want Dean to know where he’s going, he doubly doesn’t want McCarthy to find out. Plus, there’s a part of him that still doesn’t quite believe there will be anything at the end of this goose chase. There’s a high probability he’s going to be doing all this for nothing, and if that’s the case, he doesn’t want anyone to know. 

In the quiet of the library, Tyler rests his head in his hands. The night sounds of insects are making a loud chorus outside, but otherwise the night is quiet. His eyes burn. It’s a stupid, farfetched plan. A wild goose chase, but if he’s right – 

Tyler should go to bed. But even as tired as he is, he knows he’ll lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Paranoia is starting to creep into his thoughts, especially in the small, still hours of the night, when he replays the day’s events. Wherever he goes, Tyler’s started to feel like eyes are on him. That someone, somewhere is watching. He knows Jeff watches him, and Mike. But who knows who else might be in contact with Dean, or McCarthy? And who else out there can tell he’s keeping a secret? 

Tyler rubs his eyes again, and when he looks up, Tanner is standing in the doorway. 

Tyler blinks, half-convinced Tanner’s presence is an illusion brought on by lack of sleep. His heart thuds in his chest for a moment, and Tanner sketches a small wave. Not an illusion. Here. 

Tyler blows out a long breath. “You startled me.” 

Tanner rolls his shoulders in a shrug and approaches. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He doesn’t sound particularly apologetic. He stops in front of Tyler’s desk, taps the edge. “Alex said you blew her off again in the garage today.” 

Guilt curls through Tyler’s stomach. “I wasn’t trying to be rude, I just – ” 

“I know you’ve been busy. I figured it was because the Assembly’s coming up.” 

There’s less than a month left now before the Assembly re-convenes. Tyler doesn’t need the reminder. He spent almost an hour tonight scratching out planning notes on how many days on the road he’d need, how quickly he could get back, and cross referencing that with the days that Mike and Jeff are planning to be away on one of their fishing trips. There’s not a lot of room for error. 

“But Alex said you’ve mostly been working on your motorcycle.” Tanner’s voice is tight. 

Tyler’s throat closes. He avoids Tanner’s eyes. He would prefer not to lie to Tanner, but he’s not sure how to get out of having to do just that. 

Tanner hesitates. “Do you want me to leave you alone?” 

Tyler should say yes. He should say: _yes, please go_. It would be the easiest thing. It would be the safest thing, for both of them. Tyler shakes his head. “I never want you to go.” 

Tanner’s hand lifts from the desk, rising in a sharp gesture of frustration. “Well, then why are you avoiding me?” 

“I’m not – ” 

“You are.” Tanner’s eyes are narrowed. His mouth makes an uncertain line. “I thought things were – I thought we were – ” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I thought we were doing good, but you’ve all but stopped talking to me.” 

“It’s not,” Tyler sighs and rubs his forehead. “It’s not you. I am happy with you, and I do wish I had more time for you, I’m just – busy,” Tyler finishes lamely. 

“So you do want me to leave?” Tanner’s starting to sound pissed. 

“No,” Tyler’s voice rises in response. He makes an effort to slow his breathing. “Sorry. No, I don’t want you to leave.” 

Tanner throws his hands up again, then he pulls a chair up to the other side of the desk, and drops into it with an air of irritation. “Tyler. What’s going on?” 

Tyler looks at him. Tanner’s watching him steadily, arms crossed, spots of color high in his cheeks. Angry. At Tyler. And Tyler wants to reach out to him, wants to know what’s behind the look in Tanner’s eyes, and wants to be known. A familiar flush of anxiety floods him, that Tyler doesn’t know or understand. That he’s always, always guessing. “What do you want?” Tyler asks. 

Tanner hesitates. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean – ” Tyler swallows. “I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know what you expect from me. Every time I try to take a step forward with – us, I worry I’m pushing you into something you don’t want. I hate feeling like that. But then you’re here, tonight, and I do want that. And I just want to know, what do you want?” 

Tanner’s mouth works for a moment. “I like what we’ve been doing,” he says finally. “It’s been – good. Seeing you and – all of it. Working. Being part of the choir. Hanging out with Alex and Sam. Things are good.” 

“But, like – ” Tyler doesn’t know how to put this. How to put any of this into words. “What are we moving towards? Like, a year from now – five years from now – where do you want to be?” 

“Jesus, Tyler. I don’t know. The Union could fucking march on us tomorrow, what good is thinking about what I’m gonna be doing in five years?” Tanner frowns. “You sound like a coach. Or a fucking GM. What – are you gonna ask me what aspects of my game need the most work next?” 

“No – ” Tyler fires back. “I’m being serious. I want to know what you want – ” 

“There’s a million fucking things that could happen. Nobody knows how things are gonna turn out, not you, not anybody – ” 

“I know. _I know._ But if you could pick – ” Tyler has to stop, swallow before pressing on, his throat’s so dry and his voice is trying to so hard to shake. “If you could pick what you wanted your life to look like, what would you want?” 

Tanner doesn’t answer at first. He shifts in the chair across from Tyler, starts to speak, stops. His expression is still irritated, and then he just looks uncertain. “I don’t know, I – ” He looks down, eyes on hands, fingers absently playing with the papers at the edge of Tyler’s desk. 

Tyler stays quiet. 

“I like working, I guess.” Tanner’s words start slowly; he speaks without looking up. “I do. I like having a schedule. I don’t know if I want to pull weeds and haul fertilizer forever, but I like being part of a team.” He shrugs. “I like that I’m doing something that helps feed people. It feels important. And it feels good to – I don’t know, be part of a community, I guess?” 

He glances up at Tyler and then back down. “I like having my own space. I’d like to have my own house. I’d like to build my own house.” His voice is firming. “Just so I could have it exactly how I want it. And it’d be mine. But – I’d want to see you. I’d want you close. I’d want to – ” He stops, brow furrowing, the silence stretching while he searches for the words. “ – to be with you. And I’d like it if on nights where I felt good, I could stay with you, or you could stay with me – ” He trails off. “So, I guess. Yeah. If I could pick, I’d want my life to look something like that.” He looks up at Tyler again, and this time his gaze is steady. 

Tyler has to swallow around the lump in his throat. He manages a smile. “I’d like that, too.” 

The corner of Tanner’s mouth lifts. 

“It means a lot to me that you’re – happy here.” Tyler takes a breath. “It was actually kind of hard at first, seeing how well you fit in now. I was jealous because that’s always been really hard for me.” 

Tanner scoffs. An embarrassed expression steals over his face, and he looks away. “You know I threw up on Alex’s shoes, right?” 

“What?” 

“After you left.” Tanner’s shoulders round, and he’s not meeting Tyler’s eyes. “I went looking for you at the garage. I don’t remember everything.” He darts a look up at Tyler. “I was pretty fucked up.” 

Tyler shakes his head. “I can’t believe she didn’t kill you on the spot.” 

“I think she probably wanted to, but.” Tanner’s mouth twists; his shoulders curve again. “Apparently I said I was going to go throw myself in the river. I said I wanted to be done.” He swallows hard. “Alex and Sam wouldn’t let me go. They got me cleaned up, and they took me to the clinic.” 

“She didn’t tell me any of that,” Tyler says softly. 

“Yeah, well, it’s really stupid and incredibly embarrassing, so I’m glad she didn’t.” Tanner shrugs. “And now I get to talk to Doc Lavoie twice a week to make sure I don’t do anything that stupid again.” 

“That’s – ” Tyler can feel his heart trying to settle back into a normal rhythm. “That’s good?” 

Tanner smiles at him. “Better than the alternative.” He looks down at his hands for a moment, then returns to looking at Tyler. “But you never answered me about what’s going on with you.” 

Tyler swallows. Tanner’s building a life for himself here. Re-making himself and making a place for himself in the process. Growing here. And it’s so hard to even let himself think the truth, much less say it aloud. But the knowledge has been rolling around his mind since he got back from Toronto: 

Being here isn’t what Tyler wants. Or, to be more exact: it’s not enough. 

He doesn’t want to wonder for the rest of his life why his parents abandoned him, or what Dean wants from him. But it’s also more than that. If he’s right about what lies ahead of him, he could do something for more than just himself. He could do more than help Tanner and Jeff and Mike, and everyone else here at the Lake. 

He could help everyone. 

Tyler’s hands twist on the desk in front of him. A lump forms in his throat. 

Tanner is watching him, close careful attention in his gaze as his eyes trail across the surface of the desk, covered in Tyler’s notes and carefully annotated maps, and then back up to meet Tyler’s eyes. “You’re leaving, aren’t you? Not just to Toronto for the Assembly. Somewhere else.” 

Tyler’s first thought is to deny it. To hide the maps, to flip everything face down – but it’s too late. There wouldn’t be any point in it now. Tyler swallows, but his mouth has gone dry again. “I think know why my parents left Toronto, and why they left me, and maybe why everyone wants to know where they are.” Tyler pauses, voice growing even more hesitant. “And – I think – maybe – if I’m right, I could help a lot of other people, too.” 

Tanner blinks. He reaches out to rest a hand on top of Tyler’s. “I’ll help you. Tell me how I can help.” 

“It’s risky, where I’m going. And it’s a long way – ” 

Tanner frowns. “Then I’ll go with you.” 

“Tanner – ” Tanner starts to shake his head, mouth open to argue, but Tyler presses on. “I don’t – I don’t even know if what I’m doing is worthwhile. I don’t know if it’s safe – ” 

“I don’t care,” Tanner breaks in. “I don’t even care that you don’t want to tell me. I don’t need you to tell me, but I’m not going to let you go out there alone. I’m going with you.” 

His eyes are so wide looking at Tyler, and Tyler loves him. Tyler loves his smile and his laugh, and the press of his hand, and even his quicksilver ability, that is sometimes so frightening, to go so quickly from bright to dark. He loves that it’s in Tanner’s voice that he means every word. That he’s happy here, that he’s finally carved out a place for himself, but he’d drop it all to help Tyler. 

The idea of leaving him behind is horrible. And every second that Tanner holds Tyler’s hand in his, the idea of separation seems more impossible, the idea of tearing himself from Tanner’s side more foolish and implausible. 

Which is why Tyler needs to leave soon. 

Tanner is still looking at him with that unwavering gaze. Tyler is going to need that faith on the road if he’s going to pull this off. Tyler closes his eyes and makes himself believe in a future. “Tell me again you want to be with me.” 

Tanner’s hand tightens on his. “Yes.” 

Tyler doesn’t want to be without him. Tyler loves him. Loves him with every part of himself. He wouldn’t even know himself, wouldn’t be himself, if he didn’t love Tanner. He would do anything for him. Anything to keep him safe. 

Tyler breathes and opens his eyes. “Alright.” 

Tanner watches him carefully. “Alright?” 

Tyler nods. “I am leaving, but not yet. I have more of the route to plan, and I want to leave the Lake on a weekend when Mike and Jeff are on one of their fishing trips. That way there’s less of a chance anyone noticing we’re gone. We’ll get more of a head start.” He pauses. “We can take Alex’s truck. I know where she keeps the keys.” 

The corner of Tanner’s mouth quirks. “She’ll be pissed.” 

Tyler offers a small smile in return. “We’ll bring it back to her in one piece.” He pulls his hand carefully out from under Tanner’s. “We should both get some rest.” 

Tanner nods and stands. Tyler walks him to the front door of the lodge. 

Tanner leans in close. 

“I’ll always want you with me,” Tyler says. He’ll always want Tanner safe and whole and happy. “I always want to be with you.” 

Tanner answers by kissing him, one hand a light touch on Tyler’s jaw. 

Tyler watches him retreat down the steps and across the lawn until his form is lost to the dark. His chest is so full of love it aches. He’d do anything to keep Tanner happy and safe. 

Including lie. 

 

 

As soon as Tanner is lost from sight, Tyler scrambles into action. In the library office, he gathers his plans and papers together. He pulls a few pages of the maps free of their bindings and folds them into his pocket. The rest he scrapes together into a rough stack, trots down the steps, and shoves it into the middle of the burn pile. 

Back in the lodge, he stuffs a change of clothes and the kitchen first aid kit into his backpack. He tests the pack’s weight, tightening and adjusting the straps until the bag will stay tucked close to his back, no matter how he twists or leans. Every spare inch of space has to be accounted for. Every ounce has to be measured, the need for the object weighed against the effect on the bike’s fuel consumption. 

His hands shake. On his way out, he pauses in the kitchen, touching the table one last time, looking out the window at the familiar, darkened view. At the outline of his own, serious face looking back at him. 

Then he slips out into the night. 

He’s going to need food. Portable, lightweight rations are easy enough to snag. The dining hall storage pantry is full of the freeze-dried, MRE-type meals that get everyone through the winter and Tyler grabs a handful of these. He freezes for a moment at a stray sound somewhere outside, his heart hammering, but nothing stirs. He turns on his heel and heads back out. 

The moon is just a thin curve above him, half-hidden by clouds, but it’s dry. No rain. No slick conditions. No excuse for not going. Tyler crosses quickly to the garage, and lets himself inside. He allows himself a single light. As quiet as he can, he goes to the tool rack. Long habit makes his hands quick and he pulls together what he’ll need to do maintenance on the road. He thinks about leaving a note, but in the end decides against it. Buster will get it. Buster will understand that he only took what he had to. 

He offers a silent apology instead, but odds are something’s going to go wrong on the bike on a trip this long, and Tyler needs to have at least a prayer of fixing it. 

He uncovers the bike. Hands moving quickly to check the fluids, brakes, and tires. 

He fills both of the bike’s tanks, the smell of gas permeating the air. 

Tyler closes his eyes and breathes. He can feel cold sweat beading up along his spine, and he shivers. If he stops moving, he’s going to come up with an excuse for not doing this. 

Tyler presses on. 

In the dark stillness, he walks the motorcycle down the path towards the road, leaning into its weight. He stops at the guardhouse. 

The guard blinks sleepily at him and nods. His eyes move over the pack strapped to Tyler’s back. “Looks like you’re headed out for a while.” 

Tyler nods, mouth dry. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.” 

The sentry nods again, but it’s his job to keep people out, not in. He’s not going to give Tyler any trouble, and it’ll be hours before anyone else is awake to tell that he left. “You need anything? Want me to pass word along to anyone?” 

Tyler considers, then shakes his head. “But I could use some luck, if you’ve got any to spare.” 

The sentry smiles and sketches a salute. “Good luck.” 

“Thanks.” Tyler kicks the bike into life, eyeing that long open blacktop that stretches in front of him. 

It’s a hell of a long way back to Manchester. 

 

 

* * *

 


	6. A More Perfect Union

* * *

 

Tyler makes the Union border late in the afternoon, the sun still lingering in the sky, but with shadows edging long across the road. He’d passed through Thunder Bay early this morning, but didn’t stay long, because the whole ride down he’d felt the prickle of eyes on his back, and even in town, he couldn’t shake the feeling. Thunder Bay’s not big enough for him to pass unnoticed. If anyone came around asking about a guy on a motorcycle – whether that person was Mike or Jeff or Dean or McCarthy – it wouldn’t take them long to find someone who remembered seeing him. 

So Tyler kept his head down, stayed just long enough to buy gas, and then turned north and pressed on. 

Besides, he’s got places to be. 

Civilization had thinned as he moved farther from the shores of the Great Lakes, towns giving way to scattered farms and green wheat fields dotted with yellow flowers. The rows of the fields blurred as he whipped past, nothing in his ears but the whistle of the wind and the roar of the engine, comforting in its steadiness. 

The sun grew increasingly warm on his back, and the fields gave way to pine forest, sometimes wild and scraggly, sometimes in the neat, ordered lines of tree farms, but always the ground sloped gently to the north, pulling him forward. The road narrowed and wound around outcroppings of stone, glimpses of scattered lakes made sparks in the periphery of his vision. Before leaving, Tyler had traced every curve of this road on the map, but nothing on paper could have captured this: the wind making the yellow-green grass dip and roll like waves, the smell of the sun heating the tar, and the flashes of deep, cold blue through the trees. 

He pulls over just in eyeshot of the border, squatting next to his bike, as though checking something. In reality, his attention isn’t on the bike at all. This stretch of road is flat enough he can see the border guardhouse, shimmering slightly with the heat emanating off the road. He takes the opportunity to shove pieces of a crumbling protein bar into his mouth. 

He has no border pass. No laissez-passer documents. No tags. No ID. 

If he gets stopped at the border, he’s fucked. If he gets stopped anywhere past the border, he’s fucked. If the bike breaks down, he’s fucked. If he can’t find someone to sell him gas, or they want more money than he has, he’s fucked. 

And every border crossing is risky. Once he’s across, he has to go through with it. 

Or at least try. 

Tyler’s eyes stay on the guardhouse, but as long as he’s watching, nothing moves. The building looks abandoned. Tyler straightens. This deep into the middle of nowhere, Union border guards probably work on a circuit, rather than permanently staffing each crossing. But Tyler’s got no idea how long each loop of the circuit takes. 

There’s no one there now; if he’s gonna go, there’s no sense in waiting. 

Tyler re-shoulders his pack and mounts the bike again, adrenaline hot under his skin. 

He burns rubber across the border. No one stops him, no one shouts after him, the only witnesses the birds that scatter from the bushes near the road. 

 

 

He keeps riding until the border has long passed out of sight behind him, heading east, away from the sun. Adrenaline and the itching need to put distance between himself and the border makes him take the curves faster than he should, and the straightaways even faster. He slows only when he notices the gas gauge crawling towards its last quarter. According to his maps, he should at least be able to make Mattice. He ought to be able to buy gas there. 

Tyler slows as he approaches. Tree farms, mostly stumps now, dot the landscape leading up to the town. In between are small farms, and Tyler can see women in wide-brimmed hats and children squatting between the rows. 

At the edge of the town proper, a saw mill looms over the landscape. The conveyer belt casts long shadows that stripe the road, but the building and the gear works are rusted and silent. Weeds grow up through the ironworks, the whole structure dormant. 

Tyler’s been on the road for nearly twelve hours now. He needs a break – to eat something and stretch his legs, and sleep. Mattice feels like a small enough place that no one would think to look for him here. The middle of nowhere. Tyler rolls to a stop at dusty gas station on the town’s main street. Maybe the town’s only street. Late afternoon sun glares off the tin roof of the store behind the pumps. The rusty sign advertising FUEL FOOD ICE swings gently, squeaking on its hinges. 

Tyler and the bike are both coated with gray-brown dirt. Tyler dismounts and digs his canteen free of his backpack. He takes small sips. The water is warm and has a metallic tang, but his throat feels like it’s coated in dust, and the water feels good. He dampens a handkerchief, wipes his forehead and the back of his neck, and looks around. 

His dad would have loved this. The whole place looks like something right out of a spaghetti western. Tyler swipes the handkerchief across his face again and addresses a stray thought to his dad, _too bad you’re not fucking here._

He straightens, and he feels unbalanced for a second. Feels like he’s still moving, still on the road. It’s strange to be motionless. Tyler stretches and his joints creak. He shifts his weight, rolls his shoulders. He’s going to be sore tomorrow. 

Turning to the pumps, he notices that none of them look like they’ve been used in ages. Tyler frowns. He could push on farther if he has to, but he has to turn south again soon. The farther south he goes, the more likely he’ll be to meet Union troops or towns with a significant Union presence. Tyler would like to avoid being stuck in a town full of soldiers on an empty tank. 

The sound of hinges creaking makes him look up, and emerging from the store, Tyler sees an older couple. The man holds the door for the woman, who moves past him to settle in a rocking chair on the front porch. Her hands fuss with a bag in her lap, and eventually she produces a ball of yarn, and needles, and a half-finished something. The man turns to look at Tyler, and if he’s surprised at Tyler’s presence, his appearance doesn’t let on. He holds a folded newspaper in his hand, and he brings this up to fan the air in front of his face. His movements so slow and so steady, that he seems embedded in the scene. More a part of the porch and the storefront than a separate, living being. 

Tyler straightens from his position leaning against the bike. He approaches the pair slowly, stopping in the gravel just in front of them and looking up. “I’m looking to buy gas. Do you have any to sell?” 

There’s no response. The man keeps up his steady work of fanning, and the woman’s rocking chair creaks uninterrupted on the wood planks of the porch. The lines in their faces are so deep they look carved. Wispy white curls halo the woman’s face. The man’s skin is a deep, burnt umber. 

Tyler shifts, boots crunching the gravel under him. “I’m trying to buy gasoline. For my bike,” he repeats. He gestures back at the motorcycle. “I’m just passing through.” 

The man watches him, impassive. 

Tyler’s thoughts wander back to Cincinnati, and he takes a moment to wonder whether there’s something about selling gasoline that makes you into an asshole, or whether it’s just coincidence that the ones he’s met have been. He stifles an urge to roll his eyes. “I can pay,” Tyler says, and he pulls his money from his pocket. 

The man’s eyes are sharp on the money. He’s paying attention to that, anyway. He looks at the blue and white folded Union bills in Tyler’s hand – then leans over and spits on the ground. He says something in French that Tyler doesn’t understand. 

Tyler never learned French, because the whole language was supposed to be illegal, something respectable people didn’t bother themselves with, no matter what his mother says about Proust or Baudelaire. 

But it’s pretty clear whatever the man said wasn’t complimentary. 

It says something about the people up here that they’re stubborn enough to still speak it. And right now, Tyler would trade all his years of Latin for one French phrase book. 

Latin’s not a bad thought, though. The languages are related, aren’t they? It can’t hurt. If the man doesn’t want Union bills, maybe he’ll let Tyler barter his labor. “Laborare?” Tyler tries. 

The woman looks up. Both of them are looking at him now. The man’s brow creases. 

Fuck. Maybe that’s not the right root. “Trepaliare? I can work,” he repeats. “For gas.” 

“Travail?” 

Close enough. “Yes.” Tyler says, nodding rapidly. He’s gonna roll with it, even if he’s not entirely certain what he’s agreeing with. He hesitates, then adds, “S'il vous plaît?” 

The man mutters something else in French, still suspicious, but the woman rises and tugs at his arm, saying something and gesturing towards the roof of the building behind the store. 

The man sighs. He gestures for Tyler to follow him. He walks with a wide, hitching gate, one leg held straight and unbending. He stops to gather a metal pail from the edge of the porch and then continues, glancing over his shoulder once to see if Tyler is following. 

Tyler follows him to the edge of the other building – taller and broader than the store. A barn. A ladder is propped against the side, and craning his eyes upward Tyler can see a tarp stretched over part of the roof, lifting and flapping in the breeze, presumably covering a hole. He looks down again, at the man. 

The man holds out the pail, which Tyler can now see is filled with shingles and nails. With his other hand, the man offers a hammer. 

Tyler studies the ladder. He doesn’t trust it. Several of the wooden rungs seem to sag in the middle, and when he tries one, the wood groans. 

He looks up again. Coming down off that roof would be a pretty good fall. 

Tyler test his weight on the first rung. It holds, so he tries the next, and then a third. He hesitates, looking down at the old man. The man’s face is turned up. From here, Tyler can see lines of dried salt around the brim of his hat and the graying hair poking free of his collar. Tyler thinks about climbing down. He thinks about explaining that he doesn’t know anything about roofing. That he can’t. That he won’t. 

The old man waves a hand toward the roof. As if to say, _there it is. Begin._

Tyler climbs. He slides an arm through the handle of the pail, letting it rest in the crook of his elbow. He pulls the tarp back. Someone has started the work of patching, and Tyler tries to imagine the old man up here, balancing on his one good leg, the ladder swaying under him. 

Tyler does his best. He follows the pattern already begun, tacking the shingles and tar paper into place. The sun beats down on his back. His ears strain for any creak that might be the sound of wood giving way. He holds the nails between his teeth, and the taste of iron fills his mouth. 

From the top of the ladder, he can see what must be a good bit of the town. It’s hard to imagine that much has changed out here. Still carving out a living, uninterrupted by war to the south. Not to say they don’t have issues – the growing season must be short up here. Looking beyond the main street, Tyler can see the curl of the river – so on the other hand, at least they have the water that Stevens was so concerned about. 

And then, of course, there’s the issue that from what Tyler’s seen, the only people left in this town are the very old, and the very young. Which is probably why this roof has been lingering unrepaired. The Union strips resources wherever it goes, like locusts descending on a field, and here it sucked up the able-bodied. And the trees. Tyler looks back in the direction of the empty, silent mill. How long since anyone shook the dust off that machinery? How long since someone brought lumber into town? 

When the last of this generation kicks off, it’s hard to imagine this town will do anything but dry up, and blow away. 

No wonder the old man spit at the sight of Union bills. 

Tyler reaches for a loose shingle, just at the edge of what of he can reach. It sticks, and he leans – too far, because the ladder sways under him, shakes, and for one endless moment, Tyler imagines falling, breaking his neck. The old man having to call someone else to dig an anonymous grave. No one here knows his name. No word would ever get back the Lake. He would just disappear. 

The old man steadies the ladder. He’s stronger than he looks. Quicker. Tyler looks down, and the man grins a smile up at him that’s missing teeth. He waves a hand again toward the roof, message clear: _finish the work._

By the time Tyler finishes, long shadows have started crawling across the yard. He descends, and the man beckons him to follow, heading inside the barn this time, and Tyler sighs, wondering if it’s going to be mucking stalls or moving hay next. 

But the inside of the barn is empty, and the man leads him towards a small loft. A bed has been made up. A covered plate of food left on the table next to it. 

The man says something else, gruff words that Tyler doesn’t understand, but he motions to the empty space on the barn floor. He mimes revving a motorcycle, then walks to the broad set of doors at the end of the building, and throws both of them open. 

A place for Tyler, and one for the bike. Tyler smiles. 

“Thank you.” He bolts the sandwiches left on the plate, and he falls into a dreamless sleep the moment he stretches across the bed. 

 

 

In the morning they give him gas, and he’s on the road again. 

That afternoon, he makes Val-d’Or and stops just long enough to shove food in his mouth and pull on another layer. It’ll be cold once the sun starts going down. After Val-d’Or, it’s south and east again, back through forests and long, shaded stretches of woodland. 

The trees lining the road hide the horizon and make the sunset a gradual, obscure thing. A thickening of the dark, rather than a sudden loss of light. But Tyler’s not far enough south yet to have reached real development, and the brightening of the stars overhead marks the passage of time. 

Tonight will be his second night away from the Lake. Long enough for the people there to realize he’s well and truly gone. He tries to imagine the Richards’ household waking up on the morning he left. How long before they realized he wasn’t there? How long before someone knocked on the door to the library office? He imagines Jeff and Mike conferring, heading over to the garage to determine when he was last seen. 

He imagines Buster venturing out with Alex or Sam to check the roads near the Lake for signs of a crash. He wonders if they’ve made it as far as Thunder Bay yet. 

And Tanner – Tyler’s stomach twists. How long had it taken for Tanner to find out Tyler had lied? 

Tanner will be hurt when he realizes what’s happened. Tyler hopes he understands why – or can guess. That Tyler had to leave now because it would have been too hard to leave later. And he had to go without Tanner, because he needed to keep him safe. 

For a moment, a longing to turn back overtakes him, rises up and grabs him, tightening like a vise around his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. All he wants is the safety of familiar surroundings and the feeling of warmth and hope that comes from Tanner smiling at his side. 

Tyler forces it all down. He can’t ride with tears in his eyes, and so he pushes all thoughts of Tanner and of the Lake away. 

He has to do this. There are things that were put into motion long before Tyler was aware of any of them. But they’re far too important to be left half done. And Tyler is going to be the one to finish them. 

 

 

He reaches the edge of Montreal after midnight. After riding through long stretches of nothing but forest, he’d begun spotting the lights of towns, patches of brightness that grew more and more frequent and merged together, until the road had abruptly broadened. Great cement barriers rise up on either side of the highway, caging him in. The brightness of fluorescence, lighting up the middle of the night, feels strange and unnatural. As does the tidy, orderly progression of painted lines on the road. Signs announcing exits. For the first time, he hits real traffic, even this late, and close passing cars make his heart race. Every so often, Union-marked vehicles streak down the fast lane. And once, a column of Union army vehicles had chugged through, civilian traffic moving aside to let them pass. 

Tyler held his breath until they were gone. 

He spends the last of his Union money at a brightly lit gas station, wincing at the knowledge that he’s going to have to steal or barter to get home. The gas station is eerily shadow-less under the multidirectional, blue-white lights of modernity. He wears his jacket zippered up all the way to his throat, and his heart pounds in chest the whole time, but the attendant doesn’t so much as blink at him. Just counts the money, and directs him towards which line to stand in. A dozen other customers are waiting behind Tyler, milling about, and Tyler is forgotten before he’d even fully stepped out the door. 

He toys with the idea of finding a place to sleep. This is an industrial stretch of the city, and there have been people camping under all the bridges he’s passed. Tyler eyes the shapeless piles of blankets they’ve assembled, the carefully stretched and tethered tarps. A whole different set of problems here than up north. 

But he has no way of securing his bike while he sleeps, and the last thing he needs, is to be caught up in some sort of Union officer sweep of the streets. So he pushes on. 

He bears down on the throttle when the traffic eases, watching the lights blur into streams. Somewhere in the dark ahead is where he needs to be, and he needs to get there first. Hopefully, before word reaches Dean or McCarthy that he’s gone. 

And definitely before they realize where he’s going. 

 

 

Dawn finds him back in the Yellow. Back where it all started. Back in the hills north of Manchester. 

He’s shaky with exhaustion by the time he arrives. His eyes burn, and he almost gets lost looking for the Monarchs’ compound. All the time that’s passed and being on the bike makes the landscape feel unfamiliar, even though he passed over these same roads in a bus hundreds of times. And even though parts of his and Tanner’s escape from this place on foot are burned forever into his memory. 

But this is the right road, Tyler knows it. Even if he the entrance to the compound is so overgrown that he almost drives right past it. 

The gray morning light and the fog clinging up around the hilltops makes the whole place feel dreamlike. Unreal. 

But Tyler isn’t dreaming. He’s really here. He’s really passing slowly back through these burnt and blackened gates. He shivers with more than just the morning chill. 

He brings the bike to halt in the center of the drive and kills the engine, which ticks as it cools. The gate and part of the rink are burnt, the rink roof half caved-in. Weeds and saplings have sprouted up in the quad between the buildings; the forest is already hard at work reclaiming the space. 

But the other buildings still stand. The doors of the dining hall hang drunkenly askew on their hinges, but the building is upright. Tyler’s eyes wander from it, across the grassy expanse, to the dorms. 

He walks his bike behind the building and parks it. 

The dorms – where he spent so many sleepless nights, where he wept and shivered and fought and promised himself that he was different from everyone around him, that he was better, and just waiting to be taken away, waiting for the universe to notice its mistake and fix it. And where he first realized what a lie all that was. 

Even if he hadn’t realized the other lies yet. 

This was where he saw Tanner for the first time, and where Tanner touched him for the first time, made his heart leap right into his throat and changed _everything_ with one stolen, hurried caress. 

The building where all that happened still stands. The glass in the front window is cracked. The gutters are clogged to overflowing with leaves, but the door swings open easily under Tyler’s press. 

Inside, the air is dusty. Thick with the smell of mildew. Tyler sways gently, all the blood feels like it’s draining from his head, and all at once he is done. He is done with what he can do today. He is here, and he is exhausted. He walks to the first cot still upright, lays down, and passes out cold. 

 

 

Tyler wakes up thirsty and disoriented. His whole body is so stiff it hurts to sit upright. He blinks and his eyes feel crusted shut. He’s unclear what time it is, but when he stumbles outside, the day is bright and the sun is already past its zenith. His head aches, thick and foggy with lingering exhaustion or too much sleep, or both. He kneels next to the spigot by the side of the building. When he turns the handle, the pipe vibrates, groans, but eventually water spills out. First rusty and red, but then clear. Tyler drinks straight from the tap. The water tastes gritty and brackish, but he rinses his mouth and then sticks his whole head under the spigot, letting the water run through his hair and wash the grit from his face. 

His skin feels too tight. Sunburned. Or wind-burned. He pulls back from the tap reluctantly, shaking himself like a dog to shed the excess water. He goes back inside the dorms. His pack is where he left it, leaning against the leg of the cot, and he digs until he finds a protein bar. It’s sticky and tastes sickly sweet, but it eases the growling in his stomach and the ache in his head. 

Satisfied, he pushes the pack aside. He looks down the row of cots. No sense now in delaying. If he’s right, he’s right. And if he’s wrong, he’s come all this way for nothing. He walks towards the back, picking his way past overturned cots and scattered trash. He walks straight to the tiny room that he and Tanner had once, as punishment, been forced to share. 

And there, hanging on a nail in the wall, exactly where he left them, glittering in the late afternoon sun, are the PerT tags his father gave him. 

Tyler carries them outside in order to take advantage of the better light. He holds them up, watching them spin round each other on their chain. 

He studies them. Studies the raised lines and ridges of his name stamped into them. The code for the Union’s machines to read. 

And then he looks closer, because in all those times he’d held the tags out for reading, at each and every one of those border checkpoints, one of them had never worked. Tyler turns them sideways, holds them next to each other, and stares until he finds it: the thin, almost invisible line of a seam in the metal. 

There’s a screwdriver in the tool kit he brought with him, and Tyler fetches it, using it to work into the seam. The metal is softer than he thought it’d be. Softer than it should be. And when he twists, the whole tag splits into two halves. 

There, nestled inside, bedded in a carefully carved, perfectly sized indentation, is a tiny memory card. 

So much work. So much heartbreak, over something so small. Tyler looks up, over the empty yard. “This better be fucking be worth it.” 

 

 

The next morning, Tyler carefully re-packs his bag. The memory card gets secreted away inside where the fraying edge of the hem of his shirt has made a pocket. The tags he buries. He stands in the center of the dorms after, wiping the last traces of earth from his hands. The room is a jumble. He thinks for a moment of digging through what remains. Maybe he could find something of his or of Tanner’s. But the broken windows have let the weather in. The damp has caused anything fabric to rot, and in the darker corners, he can see where piles of leaves and trash have been curated into what look like nests. 

Besides, what would there even be to look for? 

He backtracks north through Montreal, pushing through the city, wagering that his fuel will hold out long enough for him to make it through the forested stretch on the other side. The people in the towns to the north will be more likely to let him barter or work for gasoline. And there’s less of a Union presence there. 

He leaves the city and towns behind, making good time. But it’s harder to feel productive re-tracing his steps. The sun is hidden behind clouds, and the road winds through mile after mile of uninterrupted forest, the tall trees hiding the sky, looming near to the road. No saw mills here. Tyler thinks about Mattice again. The dusty streets of that dying town. Surrounded by acres of stumps, and the saw mill long deserted. Presumably some of the young people from that town made their way south and settled somewhere around here. Tyler wonders what they think of all these untouched trees. 

Laborers here, and work to be done there. Resources here, industry somewhere else. Maybe that was the original problem that led to the Union’s work assignments. A great shuffling to get people to wear they need to be. Tyler takes one hand from the handlebars and touches the hem of his shirt, reassuring himself that the card is still there. 

Whatever the Union’s reasoning, it didn’t work. 

Finding that balance will be even harder once they divide up into thirty nations instead of one. Assuming, that is, that he and Mike can get a version of the Players’ plan through at the next Assembly. Neighbors might not want to cooperate. And inevitably, some of those nations will have more resources than others. Some will be bigger, stronger. And if the smaller states had something they wanted, why bargain when they could just take it. Or gobble the smaller state whole. Tyler frowns at the thought. Annex whatever they needed to, starting with whoever they were next to. 

Starting with whoever shared a border – 

All at once, the sound under him changes. The constant, smooth growl of the bike is interrupted by a thump, followed by a clattering staccato patter – Tyler’s adrenaline jumps, and he has just enough time to ease back on the throttle and slow, before the bike begins to fishtail wildly, jerking under his hands like a living thing. 

Time slows. He thinks he can maybe bring the bike to a rest, he thinks he can hold it upright. He thinks, irrationally about whether it’s the tire or if something in the engine has seized. He thinks Buster is going to be so pissed – 

Tyler feels the bike begin to tip, a movement that somehow seems to take forever, even though the motion of falling can’t have taken more than a second. Hitting the ground jolts every bone in his body. His teeth slam together. The bike skids on its side and comes to a rest in the gravel on the shoulder of the road. 

Tyler finds himself blinking up at the whitewash of an overcast sky. His ears are ringing. He feels nothing in the same way he felt after taking a hit in a hockey game – not normal, but a strange absence of sensation that means not that he is unhurt, but that in a few moments, he is going to be in a great deal of pain. 

He takes one careful breath, and his chest rises, his lungs fill. Whatever else might of happened, he’s alive, and more or less whole. 

He reaches for the hem of his shirt. His fingers creep along the fabric, and with a growing sense of horror he can’t find it – the memory card is gone. His hands work frantically, and then – there it is. The wreck had left his clothing twisted around him, but the card is there. Also too nervous to press, he traces its edges and finds it unbroken. Whole. 

He lets out a breath. 

With that breath goes the rest of his numbness. The pain roars to life, and Tyler’s whole right side burns in agony. He lies still a moment longer, mouth open, staring at the sky. 

But there’s no one out here. And there’s nothing to do but try to get up. 

He yells and falls right back to the pavement the first time he tries to sit upright. The taste of bile rises in the back of his throat. He turns his head to the side and spits. He doesn’t taste blood. That seems like a good sign, anyway. The pain is centered in his right hip and radiates outward. Tyler tries to sit again, this time he takes a break halfway up, resting on his elbows. Bracing himself, and gritting his teeth, he tries to twist, to get a look at the lower half of his body. 

His jeans are shredded all the way down his right side. Through the gaps, he can see raw flesh. And as if sight was enough to trigger sensation, his whole leg begins to throb with an even sharper pain. 

Cautiously, Tyler tries to point his toes. It hurts, but he can. He tries bending his knee, and every inch of him is suddenly aflame. Pain sharp enough to make bile rise again floods him. Tyler squeezes his eyes shut, taking quick, panting breaths. He tries again, and slowly, the knee bends. 

Nothing broken, he thinks. He got lucky. 

The bike is lying a few feet away from him. Tyler turns to look at it. The body doesn’t look too bad, but the handlebars are twisted and warped from the crash. The engine has died, but the front tire is still revolving slowly, and Tyler can see a gash in it. Big enough that no patching kit is gonna fix it. 

Tyler lays back down, lets his head thump back against the asphalt, and stares up at the gray-white sky. Not lucky enough. 

It takes him another couple minutes and the goal of the aspirin in his pack to motivate him to try to rise again. This time, he makes it to sitting, then gets one knee under him. He pushes up, almost falling when his right leg doesn’t want to bear his weight, but he stays upright. His pulse throbs loud in his ears. 

He looks back the way he came, then forward. In both directions, the road is empty. Nothing but silent forest on either side of him. He needs to figure out where he is – how deep into this forested stretch, and if it makes more sense to head back towards Montreal, or continue forward. He needs to think about how long it’s been since he passed the last town. 

Two hours? Three? 

His head pounds, making thinking hard. 

He digs the aspirin out of his pack and dry-swallows the pills, closing his eyes and willing them to take effect. He looks again in the direction he’s been traveling. At the very least, if he heads that way, he’ll be making some progress toward home. Maybe he’ll get lucky, and someone will come along willing to give him a lift to the next town. 

That just leaves the problem of the motorcycle. Tyler limps over to it. There’s no way he can walk it, even if that tire wasn’t shredded. He’s barely staying upright as it is. There’s nothing for it. He’s going to have to leave the bike. The realization makes him unexpectedly sad. He’s lucky to alive and mobile. And the bike is a machine – just metal and fiberglass, plastic and rubber. 

But it was his. He built it, and it hurts to let it go. 

Tyler reaches down and re-shoulders the pack. He turns north, and very slowly, starts walking. 

 

 

Tyler’s steps fall into an awkward rhythm. He moves forward with an uneven, but steady, gait, muttering complaints with each swing of his right leg. Or gasping, “fuck” through gritted teeth. After all, there’s no one around to hear him. 

He’s not certain how long he’s been walking when he first hears the growl of a vehicle approaching from behind him. It feels like he’s been on the road forever, but the sun is still high. Hope kindles in his chest. Maybe they’ll give him a lift. Maybe they’re headed north and he can ride with them a good ways. Tyler stops, turning to look back – the bit of road he just covered is a long, gentle decline, and so he watches the crest of the hill and waits. 

The distant rumble continues, but no car appears. Tyler frowns, judging by the volume of the sound, the car should have crested the hill by now, but the horizon remains empty. 

The sound grows louder, and it’s lower than it should be for a car, and Tyler realizes what it is – what that deep bass growl means – just a split second before the first truck in the Union convoy crests the hill. 

His eyes dart to either side of the road, taking in the thick trees, but they’ve seen him now for sure. There’s no way to run without looking suspicious. He shifts his weight, which triggers a shockwave of pain in his leg. Even if he did try to run, it’s not like he’d get very far very fast. 

Tyler turns north again, turns his back to the convoy, and starts walking. He moves as quick as he can, keeping his head down, and staying as far to the shoulder as possible. With any luck, they won’t pay him any attention. Maybe they’re in a hurry to get somewhere. He can hope for that, anyway. That’s all he can do. 

The roaring behind him increases, growing even louder, so loud it pounds against his eardrums and shakes his nerves. But the lead vehicle doesn’t appear in his peripheral vision. The convoy doesn’t pass him. 

Fuck. 

He can hear the sounds of their broad tires, just crawling over the road now, the sound of brakes squealing and grinding. From the lead vehicle, a bullhorn announces, “Put your hands up.” 

Tyler stomach sinks, and all the air goes out of his lungs. He puts his hands up. He doesn’t turn around. Very slowly, he keeps walking. 

The voice, distorted by amplification, and so loud it makes Tyler’s heart jump in his chest with each pronouncement, booms out, “Halt. Remove your backpack and throw it away from your body.” 

Tyler shuffles to a halt. He remains motionless for a moment, indecisive – which one do they want? His hands up or backpack off? 

He’s not dumb enough to argue, though. He takes a breath, and very slowly, removes the backpack, slipping it free one shoulder at a time. He tosses it towards the side of the road the best he can one-handed, with half of his body still screaming in bruised protest. 

The pack makes an ominous thud against the ground, rolling once before it comes to rest. But there’s nothing truly important in it. The Union can have his rations and his toolkit if they want them. What’s really important is hidden on his person. 

Tyler resists the urge to reach down and touch the hidden pocket in the hem of his shirt. 

“On the ground. Face down. Hands behind your head.” The bullhorn is so loud and so close behind him now, the sounds feel like they’re ricocheting off his eardrums, stabbing at his brain with their volume. 

Tyler eases himself down one knee at a time, still afraid to move too quickly. He kneels first, favoring his right side the best he can. The asphalt is damp under him, and with his face so close to it, everything smells of tar. Tyler closes his eyes. Racing through his head, are visions of detention centers. Cement walls. Barred cells. Or the glass-fronted ones in Chicago of the type that held Tanner. 

Behind him, he hears the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, boots crunching stray bits of loose gravel. At least two sets. 

Tyler opens his eyes. With his cheek pressed to the road surface, he can see one pair of boots and legs standing to his left side, all in Union gray-black. A second, he hears the second pair moving around to his other side. 

Tyler makes himself breathe. Slow. Even. 

There’s a sharp, sudden pain at his inner thigh – a booted foot kicking his legs further apart. Tyler gasps, startled, and then presses his lips together hard, breathing through his nose. 

“Don’t move.” At least it’s a human voice now. Rough hands pat down his sides, moving quickly over his arms and legs. Tyler’s breath hisses out through his teeth when they press against the raw places on his hip and leg. 

A gloved hand grasps first one of his wrists, twisting it down and back, then the other. Tyler feels the cuffs tighten; he hears the click of them snapping into place. 

“Stand up.” 

Tyler tries awkwardly to rise, struggling and off balance. The unseen hands behind him grab his arms again and haul him to his feet. He remains behind Tyler, but Tyler can see the other man clearly now. He’s shorter than Tyler, blond hair cropped close to his head. His black Union uniform is creased and dusty, but the gun he’s holding looks clean and plenty ready to use, and it’s aimed with an almost casual steadiness, at Tyler’s chest. His gaze on Tyler is cool. 

The second soldier walks slowly around to stand in front of Tyler. He’s darker than his friend, but his tightly curled black hair is just as short, and his look is one of equally frosty disdain. He reaches in and grabs Tyler’s jacket, pulling it back away from his shoulder. Then he yanks the collar of Tyler’s shirt down, revealing Tyler’s bare throat. 

He’s close enough for Tyler to smell sour sweat. Close enough to see the man’s eyes are brown, flecked with gold. His face doesn’t show any reaction to Tyler not wearing tags. He just moves on to pulling Tyler’s shirt collar even further to the side to check Tyler’s chest for tattoos. When the collar doesn’t stretch as far as he wants, he gives it a yank, hard enough to make Tyler stumble. “Where are your PerT tags?” 

His eyes flick up to Tyler’s face, one eyebrow arched. 

“Lost them,” Tyler says, working to sound casual. “Sorry.” If he can just stay calm, there’s a chance they might let him go. They could be too busy to want to bring him in, to want to deal with stopping on the way to wherever they’re going. If he can just make himself seem unthreatening. They’re all alone out here; no one would have to know they let him walk. Tyler holds onto that thought like a mantra. “I know I’m supposed to – ” 

“Shut up,” the soldier says. He lets go of Tyler’s shirt. “Turn around.” 

Heart still going loud in his chest, Tyler complies. He hears the soldier remove something from his utility belt. One hand steadies Tyler’s arm, and then works Tyler’s sleeve away from his wrist. The cuff pulls tight, cutting into Tyler’s skin, and pain radiates up Tyler’s whole arm, making his shoulder throb again. He bites down on his lip, bracing himself for the soldier to yank again, or to shove him. 

But the blow never comes. The soldier seems more concerned with working Tyler’s sleeve back, gloved fingers struggling with the layers of shirt sleeve and jacket, his work further complicated by the handcuff. Tyler hears him curse under his breath. 

Tyler frowns, confused at first, and it’s not until cool air finally touches the exposed skin of Tyler’s wrist, and the soldier makes a small sound of triumph, that Tyler gets it. 

He’s going to check Tyler for an iPerT. 

Tyler’s blood goes cold. And the fact that they’re all alone out here – deep in the woods, far away from the city – no longer seems like a reason to be hopeful. Because if they read the iPerT still lodged under his skin, one of two things is going to happen: they’re going to think he is Captain Matthew Rau and that he’s a deserter. Or they’re going to realize he stole this tag. Took it from one of their fellow soldiers. Most likely, they’re going to assume Tyler took it after killing him. 

And wouldn’t it be so much easier for them for them to mete out justice here, in the middle of nowhere? So much easier than dragging him back to a city jail. Wouldn’t they be all too eager to put a bullet in his head and kick the corpse of someone like that to the side of the road? 

Tyler’s heart rate kicks up further. He feels the press of something cold and plastic against his skin; he hears the beep of the reader going off. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

There’s nothing but silence behind him, then Tyler hears the creaking of the soldier shifting his weight. “Hey, Sergeant!” the soldier calls, loud, and it takes Tyler a second to realize it’s because the soldier has pitched his voice to carry back towards the parked vehicles. “Sergeant – you’re gonna want to see this.” 

Sweat beads along Tyler’s hairline and between his shoulder blades. His chest is tight, and his stomach churns with a growing dread. It feels like it takes forever until he hears the hears the sound of the jeep door opening, then slamming shut. It takes a lifetime for the new set of footsteps slowly approaching to reach them. The iPerT reader is once again held to Tyler’s wrist. Once again, it beeps. 

Neither soldier says anything. The silence stretches on and on, until Tyler thinks he might scream for them to make up their minds – to just do something – 

The new soldier – the sergeant – walks around to face Tyler. He looks closely at Tyler, studying him with narrowed eyes. Tyler makes himself look back – waiting, waiting for the sergeant to yell or strike or lift his gun and point it – 

“My name,” the sergeant says slowly, “is Curt Rau. I think you met my brother.” 

 

 

Tyler feels his mouth fall open. He stares. “You’re Matthew Rau’s brother?” 

The man in front of him makes a face. “ _Matthew?_ Jesus. What are you, my mother? Yeah, Matty’s my oldest brother.” He shakes his head and grins. “Hang on a sec.” He waves the soldier who patted Tyler down back towards the convey. “Greenway, tell the boys to take ten. Quarter watch, eh?” 

Greenway starts back towards the convoy, calling out as he goes, “Piss break, boys. Pass the word.” 

Rau turns back to Tyler. He side-steps behind him, and a second later, he undoes one of them, freeing Tyler’s left wrist. Rau gives Tyler’s shoulders a quick, rough brushing off. He grabs Tyler wrist, pulling it towards him and turning it palm up to study the scar that still stretches across Tyler’s skin. “Well,” he says, following the word with a long, low whistle. “Knock me over with a fucking feather.” 

Tyler squints at him, studying his face for a trace of family resemblance. Matthew Rau’s appearance isn’t as firmly fixed in his mind as he’d like it to be – at the time, Tyler had been distracted, running purely on the adrenaline of what he was about to do. And after it was over, there had been Tanner, and it was impossible to look at anyone else. 

But maybe, Tyler thinks. There could be a similarity there in the squareness of the jaw, or in the broad set of Rau’s shoulders. “You’re really his brother?” 

Rau grins again, just a hint of it around the corners of his mouth. “Last time I checked.” Then in one quick movement, he handcuffs Tyler’s still-bound right wrist to Tyler’s belt. He steps back. His eyes travel up Tyler’s leg, taking in the shredded pants and the way Tyler is trying to keep weight off his right hip. “I’m guessing you belong to that motorcycle we picked up a few miles back?” 

Tyler nods slowly. “Yeah.” 

“What are you doing out here?” His voice gets sharper with the question. 

Tyler bites his tongue. He looks down, staring at the scar on his wrist while he stalls for time. But when he speaks, his voice rolls out smoothly, easier than he thought it might. “I came out to Montreal on an errand for the Assembly. I was headed home when I wrecked. I’m just trying to get back to the Lake.” 

Rau’s gaze is steady. Any trace of his grin has faded. “Come with me.” 

The soldier standing a few feet away from them shifts. During Tyler’s exchange with Rau, the barrel of his rifle had moved away slightly, but the gun has remained in his hands the whole time. 

Tyler stands frozen for a second, but there’s nothing to do but make one foot follow the other and trail after Rau. 

The soldier with the gun falls into step behind them, automatic and silent. 

Walking towards the convoy, Tyler is still half-convinced he’s being led somewhere for them to more conveniently shoot him, or that he’s about to be locked up in the back of some truck. But while Rau does lead him behind one of the canvas-topped trucks in the convoy, he doesn’t force Tyler inside. He squints at a Union soldier perched on the high back bumper, his legs dangling. 

Greenway, the soldier who patted Tyler down, is standing nearby. Neither of them seem impressed with Tyler’s presence. 

Rau says, “I don’t know how you can sit when we’ve been sitting all goddamn day.” 

The soldier swinging his legs stops kicking and looks at him. “I spent the two years before this running my ass off. I’ll sit when I can.” He leans forward and spits into the dust between his dangling feet. Then he looks at Tyler with an expression that suggests he is only deigning to notice Tyler because of the lack of all other entertainments. “You decide the road kill was your brother after all?” 

It takes Tyler a second to realize that while the seated soldier is looking right at him, he’s actually speaking to Rau. 

Rau grins back at him. “Not exactly. You think you can handle a little road rash?’ 

“Suck my dick,” he answers, although there’s no heat behind the words. He turns more fully toward Tyler, and now Tyler can see the red cross embroidered on the collar of his uniform jacket. 

“Someday. If you’re lucky.” Rau turns to Tyler. “This is Corpsman Schmidt. His mouth is dirty but his hands are clean. We think.” 

“Fuck off.” But Schmidt hops to his feet and pats the place he was sitting. “Sit down,” he tells Tyler. “Let’s get a look at that.” Schmidt pulls on latex gloves and busies himself digging through a bag of medical supplies while Tyler awkwardly maneuvers himself onto the bumper. 

Schmidt begins cutting his pant leg away with a sharp pair of scissors. 

Tyler looks down at the top of Schmidt’s head. “Thank you.” 

Schmidt snorts and doesn’t reply. He begins swabbing Tyler’s leg with a stinging brown liquid, pausing every now and then to pick gravel out of the wound. He whistles. “Man, you leave any grit on the road for the rest of us?” He looks up at Tyler. “How are we supposed to look fucked up, dangerous and dirty if you’re hogging all the dirt?” 

Unsure of how to answer, Tyler lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Sorry?” 

Schmidt rolls his eyes and returns to his work. 

Tyler looks instead at Rau, who is leaning against the side of the truck, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s watching Schmidt work, and without raising his eyes to Tyler’s face, he asks, “So. What’d you say you were doing in Montreal again?” 

Tyler didn’t say exactly, and he’s sure Rau knows that. 

Rau looks up at him now. His expression is expectant, almost friendly. But the friendliness is layered over something harder. “We picked up your bike.” Rau jerks his chin behind him. “And your pack.” He pauses like he’s waiting for Tyler to say something. 

Tyler keeps his mouth shut. He isn’t certain what Rau knows, or what he wants, but Tyler’s not about to offer up anything he doesn’t have to. 

“But I’m guessing,” Rau continues, “even if we went through all the storage compartments on that bike, and through every pocket in that bag, we wouldn’t find any travel papers.” 

Tyler swallows, and his heart begins to flutter again in his chest. “I lost them in Montreal, along with my tags,” he lies. “I was mugged. If you look, you’ll see I don’t have any money in there either.” 

Rau’s eyes aren’t giving any clue as to whether he believes the story. Tyler shrugs. “Look, I’ve been working as part of the transition Assembly – in Toronto.” He can feel nerves trying to make him rush through speaking, but he forces himself to take a breath, and the words come out with a confidence he didn’t know he had in him. “It’s important work, and it requires – I have to go back and forth. The Players’ side, to the Union – ” Inspiration makes him add, “you can ask Representative McCarthy – he’ll recognize my name, and – ” And at the very least, he might be able to prevent Tyler from rotting in a jail cell for the rest of his life. That is, if he wanted to make the effort. 

“I know about the Assembly,” Rau interrupts. He fixes Tyler with a hard, considering look. His next words come very, very slow. “I just think it’s funny. The Union. The Players. Both of them have all that manpower – connections all over the place. Must have what – ” he looks to Greenway and Schmidt in turn, “ – dozens of contacts in Montreal alone.” His eyes fix back on Tyler. “But here you are, coming all the way from the Lake and back. Alone.” 

Tyler doesn’t dare even breathe. 

Rau takes a step towards him. “It’s your lucky day Not-Matthew-Rau, because we’re headed west and I think you better come with us.” He turns before Tyler can answer, motioning towards the soldiers with a quick, circling motion of his finger. “Let’s get a move on, boys,” he calls out. “Gotta make miles, gonna be staying in a thousand star hotel tonight.” 

 

 

That evening they sit around a battered camp stove. The convoy had halted just before dark, and the soldiers had pitched tents just beyond the side of the road with an efficiency that spoke of long practice. 

The soldiers – Rau and Schmidt and Greenway, and the others whose names Tyler doesn’t know – seem content to ignore him. Which gives Tyler time to stew in his own thoughts. After Schmidt has finished cleaning and bandaging Tyler’s leg, Rau had given him a spare pair of uniform pants, and then taken him to see the Lieutenant, in order to get permission for Tyler to travel with the convoy. 

Staring at the blue gas flame, and listening to the kettle hiss, the scene is still playing in Tyler’s mind. 

Rau had moved quickly down the row of trucks, lifting a hand now and again when someone called out a greeting, Greenway trailing after both of them. Rau looked over his shoulder at Tyler, steps not slowing and his face serious. “We will, of course, have to clear this with the Lieutenant.” 

Tyler had nodded hesitantly, still unclear whether he was traveling more as a guest or a prisoner. His hand had been carefully re-cuffed to his belt. Greenway still carried his gun at the ready. 

Rau turned back to look at him again, and this time, he winked. 

He led Tyler to a jeep near the end of the convoy. He had gestured Tyler close, and when Tyler approached, he saw a man sitting in the passenger seat, a lieutenant’s bars on his collar. 

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Rau addressed him through the open window of the jeep. 

The man inside hadn’t turned; he didn’t acknowledge Rau or Tyler. 

Rau seemed unconcerned by his silence. He continued, “We’ve encountered a single, unarmed civilian who was recently involved in an automotive mishap. I am requesting permission to take custody of him.” 

_Custody,_ Tyler thought, left a lot of room for interpretation. 

But something strange had happened. The lieutenant didn’t answer Rau, he had only stared straight ahead, blinking every so often, as though deaf and blind to their presence. 

Then, Rau had straightened. “Corporal Greenway?” 

Greenway answered crisply, “Yes, sir?” 

“I believe I heard the lieutenant grant permission to transport this civilian. Did you also hear that?” Rau looked behind him. 

“Yes sir,” Greenway answered without hesitation. “I did hear that.” 

“Good.” Rau nodded, seemingly more to himself that anyone else. He looked at Tyler once more, shook his head, and said, “Shell shock is a hell of thing.” 

That was the last thing he said to Tyler. He’d stuck Tyler in the back seat of his own vehicle and once the convoy had started up again, the sound of the engines was loud enough to drown out any questions Tyler might have worked up the nerve to ask. 

It’s quiet now though. 

Rau’s thousand stars glint overhead, and the clearing they’re in is filled only with the sound of low murmurs and the occasional bark of distant laughter. Tyler studies Rau’s face across the circle. Tyler had been given an MRE and a cup of gritty instant coffee along with everyone else, and he hasn’t been hurt, but it’s still clear that he’s not exactly at liberty to get up and walk away. His hand was freed from the cuff for the meal, but Greenway is still shadowing him. 

Rau looks at him. The light of the camp stove and the thick dark falling around them makes strange shadows on his face, gives him dark circles under his eyes, and just for a moment, he looks very much like the vague memory of Matthew Rau that Tyler remembers from Chicago. 

Rau turns a knob, and the blue flame dies, the hissing sound is silenced. At some point, without Tyler noticing, most of the crowd around the stove has drifted away. The only ones remaining are Tyler and Rau, both cradling mugs of coffee, Schmidt, intently picking at his cuticles with a pocket knife, and Greenway, still holding his gun. Their sudden isolation from the rest of the soldiers feels deliberate. 

“Matty said you were with the bandits in Chicago. That a team of bandits hijacked him, killed his partner, and stole his iPerT. He said they were part of a group that’s been picking off Union vehicles trying to supply the inland.” The last of the day’s light glints in Rau’s eyes. 

A curl of fear of fear works its way up Tyler’s spine. 

“Or at least,” Rau pauses, and the silence takes on an ominous significance, “that’s what he put in his report.” His voice is a deadly, low sort of quiet. “Lucky for you, I got to talk to him a couple months back.” 

Greenway is staring at Tyler. And Tyler can tell that Schmidt, even though his hands are still moving and his are down, is just as rigidly focused on Tyler. 

Tyler’s heart is going a million miles an hour in his chest. “What did he say?” 

Rau leans back, catching Schmidt’s eye, some silent communication passing between them before Rau looks at Tyler again. “He said you weren’t on the bandits’ side. He said he wasn’t sure what fucking side you were on. But that you kept your word, and you got him out.” 

Tyler watches him back, watches Rau lean forward, settle with elbows resting on his knees. 

Rau focuses on him with a gaze so sharp Tyler wants to ask him what he sees. What he’s looking for. “So then,” Rau asks. “Whose side are you on?” 

Tyler wants to know what answer is going to get him out of this forest alive. He wants to know why Rau’s asking at all, when Tyler’s without tags or travel papers, and just those deficits should make it obvious. 

Tyler wants to give him the truth – it worked in Chicago. It got him this far. But he’s no longer certain what the truth is. A year ago, even a month ago, he would have said he’s on Dean’s side, could have said he’s on Mike’s side, without any hesitation at all. Now he’s not so sure. “I’m not on anyone’s side.” 

Rau frowns. “You said you were working at the Assembly. I know what the Assembly is about, and it’s all about picking sides. But if you’re not a man who picks sides, then what are you doing there?” 

That’s another good question, and another one that Tyler no longer has a ready answer for. Tyler swallows, looking down at his hands to buy time. “Right now, I’m working for one of the Player Representatives, Mike Richards.” He looks up, but Rau’s face doesn’t give any response. “But I’m also – in discussions – with Cedric McCarthy.” He pauses. “I don’t think it’s about sides, I think the Assembly is about trying to make things better for as many people as possible. Or at least, that’s what I think it should be about, and I – ” Something clicks in his mind. He’s never had to say it out loud before, maybe he’s never even thought it before exactly like this, but the pieces were there. This is what he’s been building towards, without even knowing it. “And I have something both sides want. I can negotiate with them, so I can push the Assembly towards being that.” 

He looks up at Rau and the other soldiers again, half hidden in the growing dark, features pale in the strange bluish light of their solar lamps. Tyler has to work to keep his hands still, to keep himself from reaching down and touching the memory card. Reassuring himself of its continued existence. “I’m trying to make things better. And I think I can. I’m working to – put us all on equal footing. So we can build something better. Maybe not perfect, but better.” 

Rau and Schmidt exchange another long, silent look. And then, with a gesture so small, Tyler would have missed it had he not been watching, Schmidt nods. 

Rau shifts his coffee from one hand to the other, even though the mug has long since been emptied. “Matty’s my oldest brother,” he says. “But there are four of us in all.” Rau pauses. “Two on this side.” He flicks lightly at the Union patch of his uniform. “And two of us on the other. 

“On the – Players’ side?” At Rau’s nod, Tyler risks half a smile. “That must make reunions interesting.” 

Rau’s mouth quirks in response. “You don’t know the half of it. But. It gives a man a real – ” He hums, thoughtful, “ – a real _nuanced_ understanding of what sides mean. Or maybe of how little they mean.” 

“Look at you, Sarge,” Schmidt chimes in. “Getting all philomasophical.” 

“Schmiddy it’s a good thing you’re a decent sawbones or I would have shot you like three campaigns ago,” Rau answers him without looking away from Tyler’s face. 

“Promises, promises,” Schmidt muses, and even Greenway smiles. 

Rau straightens. “This unit was recruited almost entirely out of towns in the Red  & Green. Most of us have been together over four years now. There are seven vehicles, twenty-three men, and one commissioned officer on this convoy.” There’s real pride in his voice, but he pauses, his mouth twisting, before he continues. “And none of us have been paid in over four months. We haven’t gotten any orders since May. And the way I see it, sides are about to become real irrelevant.” 

Tyler sits back; he can feel his mouth open in surprise, and he works to make his face less of an obvious tell. But the Union’s whole base of power relies on their army. All of their tactics involve frightening opposition into submission with force, and policing borders with the sheer mass of their presence. With no military, there’s no control. 

It’s impossible. Even with everything else in turmoil. The army should have been the Union’s first priority to maintain, and he can’t imagine how someone as experienced and organized as McCarthy could have ever let things get this bad. 

Unless he didn’t. Unless the Union leadership is more fractured than Tyler realized. McCarthy must have known about this when he told Tyler the Union-held northeast was close to falling. Which means he must be making himself some kind of escape plan, so that even when the Union crumbles, he’ll come out fine. 

Tyler pictures him in that plush, gleaming office, his finger snapping that wafer-thin cookie into pieces. 

Those pieces that the Players are trying to set up to thrive on their own. Tyler’s thoughts turn darker. Pieces that Dean has so carefully placed himself to be ready to sweep into his own empire – whether they liked it or not. Strange that the same set of changes would benefit both of them. It’d be hard to have interests any more aligned than that – 

Unless it’s not strange at all. Unless Dean and McCarthy were working off the same plan. 

Tyler sits frozen with the revelation, his thoughts are running quick, trying to figure out how that could be plausible. They’d have to be communicating, and that – 

That would be Wayne. That’s Wayne’s job. That’s what Wayne wouldn’t or couldn’t tell him back in Toronto. No – that’s what he _did_ say, only Tyler wasn’t listening. 

And that’s how Dean knew the contents of a letter he never received. 

A slow, cold fury seeps into Tyler’s bones. 

“You’re right,” he breaks his silence, looking at Rau. “It’s not about sides. It’s about finding and protecting the people you care about.” Whatever web Dean and McCarthy are weaving, Tyler doesn’t want any part of it. Whatever they’ve trying to spin, he’s not going to fall for it. He’s going to go back to the Lake, he’s going to find his parents, he’s going to keep Tanner by his side, and keep everyone close, and everyone safe, and – 

And – 

He doesn’t know what comes after that. 

Fortunately, Rau seems satisfied by his answer. He rolls his shoulders, stretching. “Amen to that.” 

Tyler stretches too, stalling for a moment by easing his sore leg slowly out in front of him. Better to shift the conversation away from what the future holds for Tyler. “What are you going to do now? If you don’t have orders or money and no one’s in charge, I mean.” 

A slow grin crosses Rau’s face. “We’re gonna do what all good Red  & Green boys do when the job’s done – we’re going home. We’re going back to Minny.” He looks away, and then he looks back at Tyler, one eyebrow lifted. “So what’d you say, you want a lift the rest of the way?” 

Tyler can feel a hopeful, nervous laughter burbling up through his chest. “Yeah. Yeah I do.” 

Tyler asks one more question before they pass out for the night. “Did you brother – after we left him in Milwaukee – did he get in trouble with the Union?” 

“Are you kidding?” Rau grins. “They gave him a fucking medal.” 

 

 

A day and half later, Rau and his crew drop Tyler in Thunder Bay. Tyler leaves the bike with them, with an invitation from Rau to come and get it the next time he’s in Minneapolis. 

From there, he catches a ride with a mail courier – a grouchy woman who stays silent the entire ride, and drives with a lazy disdain for the rules of the road. 

Her silence works for Tyler. It feels strange to be headed back. Strange to be enclosed in a vehicle and driving through these wooded, curving roads again. 

He shifts in his seat and winces; his right side is still mostly scrapes and bruises. The driver glances over at him, and her eyes linger on the Union army pants Rau gave him. He wonders who she thinks he is, whether she thinks he’s a Union deserter. He studies her face. A loose piece of iron-gray hair has escaped from under her cap, and she brushes it away. One of her shoulders is slanted, permanently lower than the other. Vague anxiety has kept Tyler awake on this last leg of his journey. He wonders who, if anyone, is actively looking for him. He wonders if she recognizes him. Internally, Tyler rolls his eyes at himself. He’s being ridiculous. 

Probably. Maybe. 

He’s been gone for just six days, but it feels like forever. 

She drops him at the Lake in the gathering dark of twilight. There are people out in the yard in front of the lodge, taking advantage of the mild night. Couples sitting together on blankets. Children chasing fireflies. And off at the edge of the clearing, where Tyler can hear more than see them, a laughing group is kicking a soccer ball. 

He hesitates, standing with his pack slung over his shoulder, uncertain of which way to go. The guards at the Lake’s outer gate had recognized the courier’s truck and waved them through, and now the unsteady light of dusk hides his face. No one approaches him, no one pays him any mind. Everyone around him is wrapped up in their own evening entertainments. Their own games and discussions and arguments. In front of him, the lodge is lit from within, warm and welcoming. 

What will change, Tyler wonders, if he goes inside. One hand lowers slowly to the hem of his shirt and traces once more over the memory card. If he goes inside and pops this card into the library’s computer, he’ll have answers. But whether they’re answers he wants, he doesn’t know. 

He’ll know what the information that Dean so dearly desires is. He’ll know what is the precious thing his father valued over the safety of his own family. The weight on his shoulders feels incredible, and heart abruptly in his throat, Tyler is seized by the urge to throw the thing into the lake instead. To let the water swallow it, and let everything the information might bring drown in the depths. 

Of course, he could also still just give it to Dean. 

Even as he shudders at the thought, there’s a part of him that whispers how much easier that would make everything. It’s not too late for that. In the woods outside Montreal, he had felt so sure that Dean couldn’t be trusted, but now the temptation is enormous. Dean’s motivations might be muddy, but so what? Didn’t Dean also work to keep him safe? To keep him sheltered? Doesn’t Tyler owe some loyalty to this man who has always been his friend? 

There must be part of the situation Tyler can’t see. It must be more complex than he realizes. Dean could have a million reasons for his actions – and it’s not like Tyler has any proof Dean is conspiring with McCarthy. It could be some vast double-cross that Tyler just doesn’t understand. 

After all, isn’t Dean someone he’s known his entire life? 

In his head, he can hear Dean – his voice staticky and distant, like it was on the phone, when Tyler last heard him. When he told Tyler that information was dangerous. That if Tyler found anything, he was to give it to Dean first. 

If he walks into the lodge and tells Mike to get Dean on the phone – tells him it’s an emergency – he’s willing to bet Mike could have that phone line up and working in a heartbeat. And if he tells Dean what he found, what he found out – then the card will be Dean’s problem. Whatever’s on the card will be Dean’s problem. Whatever the ramifications, that burden will be lifted from Tyler’s shoulders. 

If he turned it over, Tyler would be free to stay here, at the Lake. To focus on Tanner. To look for his parents. To make a life. Isn’t that what he had decided was most important? 

He tries to tell himself he could stay here at the Lake, and work in the garage, and dream up new ways to fix things. He could retrieve his motorcycle and try to fix it, or fix up a new one. He could listen to music. He could spend his evenings with Tanner, and with Alex and Sam. He could be happy. 

But every day and every year that passed, he would get a little bit older, and never find his parents, and never ever know what he could have done. If he could have done something more. 

He had also told Rau the Assembly was supposed to be about helping people. Turning the card over unread would be the easier thing in the short-run, but Tyler knows deep in the core of himself, that he can’t spend his whole life wondering. And he can’t quite silence the voice in his head that keeps asking if he ever really knew Dean at all. 

Tyler is tired of waiting. He’s tired of following, and going quietly, and accepting. He’s tired of not knowing. He begins to move with purpose, towards the lodge. Slow at first, but his steps lengthen, and by the time he hits the front steps, he’s broken into a jog. 

He speeds straight past the kitchen. From inside, he hears a conversation. The voices pause as he goes past the doorway, and someone calls out uncertainly, “Tyler?” 

But Tyler doesn’t slow. He goes straight to the library. A small group is hovering near the library door, looking over the List, but Tyler pushes past them, ignoring the murmurs of irritation. 

Tyler sits down in front of the computer. Fingers working the fabric of his shirt, he frees the card. Taking a deep breath, he inserts it into the computer. 

For a moment, he’s not sure what to do next. Nothing appears on the screen. No message, no text, no program pops open. 

But all at once, he does know. With a couple clicks, he pulls up the Union’s database. The machine hums for a moment, thinking, lagging, and then there it is. The encryption that all his efforts at reading and studying could not let him understand or master is gone. The database before him is decrypted and ready. Asking him obediently for his search query. 

All of it. At his fingertips. Anything he wants to look up – anything the Union knows, or ever knew, all their decades of hoarded information and secrets, all right here in front of him. 

In all that world of information, there is only one choice for what to look up first. 

Tyler pulls in a breath, and into the query box, types, _Toffoli._

Two entries come up, near instant, neat and clean, in sterile electronic text. 

Matching. Side by side, they read: 

_Toffoli, Elizabeth. 081212. XX_   
_Toffoli, Peter. 081212. XX._

His mind translates the Union shorthand instantly, the words scrawled large across his vision. The meaning lags just a half second behind. His breath catches in his throat. His hands go numb, even before he’s consciously realized why. 

But there is the knowledge, on the screen in front of him, and now hammering in his head. XX. Executed. Dead. Dead since last summer, and he was – 

Tyler has so few hard and fast dates to landmark the last year of his life. There were no calendars when he and Tanner were running from the Union. There were no newspapers on the drive to Chicago. But last summer, in the last throes of the year’s heat, he had been in a cabin in the woods outside Hamden, Connecticut. He had spent those long, golden days stretched out next to Tanner. Learning how to touch him. Learning how to make love. 

And somewhere else, at some Union detainment facility a world away and not far enough away at all, his parents had taken their last breaths, and closed their eyes, and been still. 

Tyler can feel himself start to shiver. Cold and hot at the same time. He is outside himself. He can see his hands still resting on the keyboard. He can see that he is still staring unblinking at the screen. He can see tears that he cannot feel running down his cheeks. 

He sees Jeff approach from behind him. Jeff puts his hand on Tyler’s shoulder, and it feels like a ghost of a touch, like Jeff is touching him through a hundred layers of fabric. He sees Jeff’s lips move, but he can only hear a faint echo, the sound muted and distorted, like somewhere screaming underwater. 

Jeff says something else, more distinct this time. “Oh. Shit.” 

All at once Tyler is back in his body. His eyes are sandpaper dry; his teeth are chattering. 

They’re not alone, either. The people who were checking the List outside have appeared in the office door, drawn by the sight of Jeff running, or maybe by his exclamation. One of the strangers catches sight of Tyler’s face, and he comes even closer. He bends around the desk to view the monitor, and then still unsatisfied, twists the monitor to better face him. 

Neither Tyler nor Jeff object. In his mind, Tyler cries out, but he can’t move. 

The man says something, or maybe he yells. It’s hard to tell; the sounds have an underwater distortion. He points at the screen, gesturing to his companions. “Look at that,” Tyler hears. “Look at that – ” 

The room is suddenly crowded. Everyone from the hall is pressing inside, pressing closer to get a view of the screen. People Tyler has never seen before or faces he only barely recognizes. His stomach churns with the abrupt heat and the smell of bodies, and the knowledge that people are here at all – that they’re fine and healthy and breathing and his parents are – 

The first voice calls out, “He’s got the database up and running!” 

A second voice. “I recognize those names. They’re on the war criminals list.” 

A pause, and then, “And they’re _dead.”_

The man lets out another noise now, and there’s no mistaking it for anything else: it’s joyful. A cry of celebration. 

His call brings more people into the room. Tyler stops hearing individual voices and can only discern a fast, hot murmur. People crowd so tightly around the desk that Jeff is pressed hard against the back of the chair and Tyler glances up to see him wide-eyed. White-faced and frozen with his own panic in the crush of the crowd. 

Everyone around them seems happy; all of them seem ecstatic. Happy, maybe, that the database is up. But also: happy that Tyler’s parents are dead. 

A sob works itself free of Tyler’s throat. He hates them. He hates everyone in the room, everyone at the Lake, and if he could, he will kill them. Every last one, without a second thought. 

But he can’t make himself speak, and he can’t make himself move. Maybe instead, he’ll just die here too, buried under an airless pile of pressing flesh. His heart goes like a hammer in his chest, and his stomach twists again – 

And then, from the doorway, one very loud voice yells, “Everybody get the fuck out.” 

The crowd stills. Tyler’s heart goes still in his chest. 

“ _Out,_ ” Tanner repeats. “If you don’t work here, get the fuck out.” 

It feels like it takes forever for the people to filter out. Some of them grumble as they go, but Tanner draws himself up, stares down the slowest of them, and then it’s just him and Tyler and Jeff in the room. 

“Tyler,” Jeff says. Very, very softly, as if Tyler is something that might shatter. 

Tyler shakes his head. 

Tanner doesn’t say anything at all. He comes around the desk to Tyler. He kneels in front of the chair, his eyes wide in question. 

Tyler cracks. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. He’s crying too hard. 

Tanner opens his arms. He draws Tyler out of the chair, and Tyler lets himself fall into him. 

 

 

Tyler wakes slowly. His eyes feel swollen, crusted, and he cracks them just enough for light to come in. He catches hazy glimpses of the room. Washes of color and shape. 

He closes his eyes again, turns his face away from the light. The muscles of his neck twinge, as though he’s been lying for a long time in a strange position. The echoes of a headache pulse in his temples, and Tyler groans. 

A hand touches his head, brushing the hair away from his face. The touch is slow, and careful, but unhesitating in a way that speaks of familiarity. 

Whatever Tyler’s head is resting on rises and falls with the slow rhythm of someone breathing. Tyler opens his eyes again, this time making the effort to focus. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t even remember coming into this room, but he recognizes it – the Richards’ small private living room, just off their kitchen. Tyler is stretched across their couch, his head in Tanner’s lap. 

He does remember Tanner coming in, although the memory has the watercolor edges of a dream, and he does remember Jeff’s hands on his shoulders. And Jeff saying, _they had each other. They were never alone._

Tyler had cried until he was blind. He cried until his head throbbed and he thought he might be sick with it. He cried until people stopped trying to talk to him. Until they just let him curl, and shake, and keen. 

Tyler sniffles, tries to swallow. His head still hurts. His throat is dry. 

Tanner’s hand stops moving. “Are you awake?” 

Tyler doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to speak. Every second of consciousness, reality rushes back faster and sharper. The light itself is like daggers. The air like razors ripping through his lungs. Tyler turns, burying his face against Tanner’s chest. “I just want to talk to them one more time. Just one time.” 

“Ty.” Tanner’s hand starts up again. “I’m sorry.” 

“They’ve been gone for so long.” Days and weeks and months of Tyler waking up in the morning and not knowing. Walking through his days and not knowing. Eating and driving and talking and working. Complaining, bitching about stupid, stupid, tiny things, and the whole time not knowing. Somehow not knowing, that they were gone. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I should have known.” There should have been something – a shiver when they left, or a black weight on his shoulders, or a phantom punch to the gut. The light should have changed, or the colors of the world shifted. He should have _known_. 

Tanner doesn’t say anything in response to that. After a moment, his voice very low, he offers, “Jeff brought coffee and some biscuits by earlier, if you want to eat something. They’re on the end table.” 

“I’m not hungry.” He’d been so angry. Of all the stupid things to be, of everything he could have been feeling, he’d been _angry._ Every time he thought of his parents over these last few weeks – cursing them for not being here, calling his dad an asshole inside his head. Pissed that his mom had left him. Tyler’s stomach twists, knot-like. And the whole time, they were gone. What kind of asshole does that make him, what sort of terrible son – 

Underneath him, Tanner’s torso twists. Tyler can feel him reaching towards the end table. He says, “You should eat something – ” 

Tyler’s fingers twist into Tanner’s shirt, grabbing hold. 

Tanner stills underneath him. 

Tyler can feel Tanner’s itch of confinement – Tyler knows him like he knows himself – but he can’t make his fingers turn Tanner loose. Tanner has stayed with him all night, hasn’t said anything about how Tyler disappeared, or lied. Tanner has every right to be pissed, and he doesn’t owe Tyler anything. But he’s here, and the idea that he might leave, even to get up, even to cross the room – makes Tyler’s heart skitter in his chest. His stomach drops as if a trapdoor had opened beneath him, and his fingers lock into a death grip in the fabric. 

“Please stay,” he manages. He hardly recognizes his own voice, strangled and thin. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tanner says. 

Tyler swallows. “I know I’m being crazy. I know I’m being selfish. I know you don’t want – ” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tanner repeats, with force behind his words. His arm comes down to circle Tyler’s shoulder. “Is that what you need me to say? Don’t leave me again and I won’t leave you. I’m not going anywhere without you.” 

Tears blur the world in front of him. The couch and the table and the lamp across the room smear into vague slices of bleeding color. The window shows mostly sky, and against the dim room, it’s light. All light-washed into white and gray and faded blue. 

Tyler is sinking, and he can feel the water level rising, can feel water lapping at his throat, his chin, his ears. Running over his face and into his lungs. There’s no air, and there never will be again. There’s only a weight on his chest like an unexploded bomb left behind after some great war, still ticking and waiting. Left dormant in the dark, but still there. And it’s finally been battered enough, shaken enough, that it’s going to awake. 

If there were air, Tyler would sob. He would howl. But grief has stolen his air and swollen his throat. And the only sound he manages, is a low, keening moan. 

Tanner’s arms are tight around him. He bends and curls around Tyler until Tyler feels his cheek press hard against the top of Tyler’s head, and over the sound of his own chattering teeth, Tyler hears him breathing. 

Waves of grief blur the shapes in front of him, they bleed the room of its color. Tyler closes eyes as he sinks. The light ebbs, and together, they go down. 

 

 

Jeff appears in the afternoon. The sound of the door makes Tyler start, although he can’t be certain if he was asleep, or just drifting. He hasn’t moved much from the couch, and Tanner hasn’t strayed from his side. 

Jeff places a tray on the coffee table and sits in a chair facing them. “Eat something.” And although the words aren’t harsh, it’s not a request. 

Tyler makes the effort to sit upright. He’s vaguely aware of what he must look like. Red, and puffy, and tearstained. 

Jeff gestures towards the tray. There are two bowls of soup. Two sandwiches. Two glasses of water. 

Tyler reaches for one of the bowls of soup. Tanner takes one of the sandwiches. The food is tasteless in Tyler’s mouth, but it stays in his stomach. Mechanically, Tyler empties the bowl. He sets it aside, spoon neatly atop napkin, and reaches for the water. After he drains the glass, speaking seems marginally easier. He looks at Jeff. “My dad had a key to the Union’s encryption. It was on a memory card that he hid inside the PerT tags he gave me when they left me in Manchester.” 

Jeff’s face doesn’t register much of a reaction, except that his eyes close briefly, as if internalizing his understanding. “Ah.” 

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. That he did that. Or why he did it.” Tyler barely knew who his father was – who he transformed into when walked out the front door of their family home. “I didn’t know until – until I realized it had to be something I had back in Manchester. So I went back to Manchester to get my tags and I found the memory card.” Tyler pauses. “That’s what he stole.” 

That’s why they had to leave. That’s why he’s dead. That’s why Tyler’s mother is dead. That’s why Tyler is alone. A cold fear starts to creep back into him, and Tyler hunches forward, arms curling around himself. 

He feels Tanner’s hand at the small of his back. Tyler shakes his head. “They killed him because he took it. Why would they kill my mom – she didn’t do anything. And why would he risk us for that?” He looks up at Jeff, like somehow Jeff might know. “Why?” 

Jeff shakes his head. “I don’t know.” 

“Why would he do that?” The food sits like a lump in his stomach, and the silence in the room is so loud it makes Tyler’s head throb. His parents are gone, and Tyler’s never going to see them again. Never going to speak to them again, all because his dad stole something hardly bigger than Tyler’s thumbnail. 

One action. One choice, and they’re gone. They’re both gone. 

Jeff looks back at him, face blank. 

Tyler drops his eyes to the carpet. His father must have known this might have happened. He must have realized that if the card was important enough to steal, that it was important enough for someone to come chasing after. 

He must have known what he was risking. 

But they’re gone. Tyler will never be able to ask, and that knowledge echoes around the inside of him, hollowing him out. He wipes a stray tear from his face. He could cry all day, all the rest of his life and never know, he could burn a hole staring at this carpet, he could crumble into dust and blow away, and sitting here, would never find the answer. 

Jeff clears his throat quietly. “You were limping when you came in. Do you need – ” 

“No.” Tyler presses his fingertips to his temples. The emptiness in him is like an unending cavern and everything is chopped into echoes. Tyler breathes, and the angle of the sun outside lowers. The light comes in and batters him, forcing his eyelids closed, making everything blood red. 

He waits for Jeff to ask something else. He waits for Jeff to say they’ll have to call Dean. Or they’ll have to tell Mike. Or even to ask what Tyler plans to do. But Jeff remains silent. A blessing, because a blistering ache is building in Tyler’s head. He wants to sleep. He wants to close his eyes and not think and not wonder and not ask questions he’ll never get to know the answer to. 

But the blade of sunlight is warm on his face, and it prods at him. Tyler’s mind, some piece of it, is working desperately to pull itself free. Some piece of him is climbing out of the dark water dragging him down and pushing back against the draw of sleep. 

He doesn’t know what was so important that his father was willing to risk his family. If he stays here, if he slides down into that soft, dark sleep, he’ll never know. But there is one place, one way, he can find out. 

Tyler opens his eyes and looks up at Jeff again. He asks, “Is the library office empty?” 

 

 

Tyler makes his world very small. 

The library has been closed, and a pullout couch dragged inside. As soon as Tyler wakes, he treks from this couch, to the bathroom; from the bathroom, directly to the library office and the computer that holds the database. Only when his eyes won’t focus anymore, does he complete the triangle, and stumble towards the couch to pass out. 

Occasionally, Tanner or sometimes Jeff, intercepts and re-directs him, guiding him towards food or rest. And Tyler sees Mike and some of the others flickering at the edges of his awareness. 

But other than those brief moments, Tyler lives inside the database. He props the pictures he took from his parents’ house on the desk next to the monitor. He places the letter his father wrote to Dean on the other side, then clears the desk of everything else. He shuts the door to the outer room and makes the library office his whole universe. 

For days, he combs through the records, following lines of information as they wind from the present towards the past. Tyler has the date his parents died, but he’s looking for what happened before that. He’s looking for what made his father copy the encryption key, and what made him run. And somewhere in this tangle of records – in these line items and transfer documentation, somewhere in the arrest logs, and account balances, in the voting records or the donation records or the hiring records, all kept with meticulous, bureaucratic fervor – somewhere there has to be an answer. 

He tries very hard not to think about how it would be so much easier to be able to just ask his parents. He doesn’t think about what he would say if he could just talk with them one more time – because if he does, an ache will rise up in his chest and squeeze his lungs like a vise. 

He stays in the database. Writing down dates. Jotting down names that appear with frequency. Making notes on what to look up later. Every so often, he thinks it might be safe to lift his head, to slow or stop his thoughts, but the snap of grief that hits him when he does is like a late frost devouring a tree’s new buds, freezing them solid before they can ever unfurl. 

His parents are gone, and Tyler is left with nothing but questions. 

He rests his eyes for a moment, closing them, turning his face away from the computer screen. When he opens his eyes, he can see Tanner on the couch, reading in a pool of lamplight, and the horrible weight on Tyler’s chest, the ice encasing him, eases, just a little. 

Tanner has stayed. A steady, unquestioning presence, even though it’s been – 

Tyler’s lost track, he realizes, lost track of how many days it’s been. A curl of guilt winds through him. He’s been nothing but a ghost, has been ignoring anything and everything around him, but every time he’s glanced away from the screen, Tanner has been there. Never once has Tyler looked up to find him missing. 

“You’re still here.” Tyler’s voice is rusty. 

Tanner looks up, surprised. He blinks at Tyler. “Of course I’m still here.” 

“You can’t possibly be sleeping.” At night, Tanner lies down next to him when Tyler retreats to the pullout sofa, but whether he sleeps, Tyler doesn’t know. It seems unlikely. “And I thought you’d be mad. About how I left.” 

Tanner shrugs. “We talked about that.” 

“We didn’t,” Tyler says. “Not really.” He clears his throat. “I knew what I was doing was dangerous. I knew it was risky, and I might have gotten to Manchester and that the tags wouldn’t be there. Or they would, but I could have been wrong. Or someone else could have gotten to them.” 

Tanner’s gaze sharpens at that, his brow knitting into a frown. 

“ – if one of them had gotten there first,” Tyler shakes his head. “I didn’t want to risk you getting hurt. And I realized – I realized that if you had asked me to not do it, to not go, I would have stayed.” 

Tanner looks away. His gaze is out the window, at the dark. If he can see anything out there, it’s hard to see what. For a long moment, there’s no sound in the room at all. 

“And I had to.” Tyler can hear his voice shake. “I had to do this.” 

Tanner turns back towards him and pins him with a look. “Don’t ever disappear like that again.” 

“I won’t.” 

“And don’t lie to me.” 

“I won’t.” 

“I don’t care if you think you’re – helping me, or protecting me or whatever. Don’t lie to me.” 

“I won’t. I promise.” 

Tanner holds his gaze a moment longer. “Then it’s fine.” 

Tyler frowns. It seems like there should be more words needed, because this moment feels big. It feels important that Tanner has stayed by his side, and that Tanner has said he won’t leave, and that he doesn’t want Tyler to leave him. The raw places inside Tyler sting, and something wells up in his chest. They’re picking up again. Maybe not exactly where they left off, but Tanner stayed, and that has to mean something. 

Tanner continues to watch him. “What are you looking for in there?” 

Then again, Tanner has never needed many words. Tyler can hear in his voice that the question itself is a test. Tyler’s answer is going to tell him everything he needs to know. Tanner’s face is steeled for Tyler’s demurral, ready for him to sweep the question aside. Ready for him to lie. 

Tyler could, now. He’s learned how to lie, and he’s learned it gets easier each time. And has quick, reflexive urge to do just that. To not let Tanner in on this mess – this ugly, convoluted web that his father seems to be at the center of. 

But the only reason he’s made it this far is because Tanner has carried him. “I don’t know,” Tyler says honestly. “My dad must have stolen this for a reason, though. I’m trying to figure out why.” Why his father woke up one morning, and decided to blow up his entire life. “But exactly what that will look like, I don’t know. I’ve been trying to use the database to find out everything I can about my parents. Anything about why they might have done it.” 

Working backwards in time, he’s found every trace of his parents’ lives documented by the state. He found the warrants issued in their names shortly after their flight from Toronto. He’d found his father’s business’ tax records. Funding allocations. Partnership and merger documents. Moving even further back in time, he’d found the record of the fee his parents paid to ensure his own Free Agency. 

And even earlier than that, before the era of his own existence, he’s found their own Free Agency certifications. Their marriage license. 

The further back in time he gets, the stranger the records seem when compared to the people he knew. A whole new picture of their lives has emerged. His father had dropped out of school at one point, then re-enrolled. His mother had an arrest record. Demonstrating. Disturbing the peace. The mug shot shows a woman with long hair and a defiant lift to her chin that Tyler only barely recognizes. Tyler pulls that photo to the front of the desktop. He motions for Tanner to come over and look. 

“That’s my mom.” He taps the screen. “From before I was born.” 

Tanner smiles faintly. “Looks like trouble.” 

“She – ” Tyler stops. He shakes his head, his throat closing. He gestures roughly at the screen. “I’ve looked at everything about them I can find.” His hand drops. “From now until as far back as I can go. And I haven’t found anything that explains why.” 

He rubs his temples. “And, look – ” With a few clicks he brings up the other old documents he’s found. “The Fractured Era records are so incomplete they’re basically useless. And the modern records are so detailed, and there are so many of them, but I just don’t know what I’m looking for.” Tyler throws up a hand. “He must have had a reason for doing what he did. But if he did, he never told me, or anyone, as far as I can tell.” He waves vaguely at the letter on the desk. “He might have been trying to tell Dean, but there’s not enough info in there for me to figure _what_ he was trying to say.” 

Tanner looks from the screen to the letter. He touches it, and then looks at Tyler, hesitating, silently asking permission. 

Tyler nods. 

Tanner picks up the letter and the envelope, reading first one, then the other, then the letter again. “You have the same handwriting as him.” 

Tyler shrugs. “My dad wrote that letter to Dean after he left me in Manch.” Even though the man is dead, even though guilt curls through him, Tyler can’t keep an edge of bitterness out of his voice. “He wrote to Dean, but he didn’t have anything to say to me.” Dean, who Tyler doesn’t even know if he can trust. 

Tanner taps the folded page against the envelope very softly. He replaces them on the desk with such care they could have been made of glass. “Why wouldn’t your dad have just told Dean about the memory card when he dropped you in Manchester?” 

“I – ” Tyler hesitates. “I don’t know.” 

Tanner’s fingertips still rests atop the page. “Are you sure he wrote this to Dean? What if he wanted to send it to you?” 

Tyler looks up at him. Tanner’s gaze is steady looking back. “It was addressed to his office.” 

Tanner studies the envelope again. “But if was trying to send it to you, where else was he going to send it?” 

 

 

Tyler’s mind spins questions. 

What would it mean if Tyler’s dad had tried to write to him? Is it just wishful thinking to consider that possibility? What if he had tried to send it via Dean, but meant for it to go to Tyler? Does that mean that even back then, Tyler’s father didn’t trust Dean? 

What was he trying to say? And is that why the letter itself is so vague? Why _didn’t_ his father say anything about the memory card to Dean on the night he left Tyler? Why would he have kept that a secret from his very best friend, Dean Lombardi? 

Tyler turns his search in the database away from his parents, to the only other person who has been there since the very beginning. 

He searches for Dean. 

The results are an avalanche. Dean’s presence in the database dwarfs the number of records about his mom and dad combined. His time with the League’s various teams is, of course, extensively documented. But the more of these records Tyler reads, the less sense he can make of them. 

Dean was fired from his job in the Orange; the termination and transfer of residency records are clear. But there are flight logs that have him still traveling there long after he and the team parted ways. After that, Tyler traces his movements to the Teal, and then on to the Black. 

Money from these teams disappears and reappears in the accounts of people who would one day lead the revolution. Tyler expected this bankrolling – the rebellion in the Black and in Hamden had Dean’s fingerprints all over it. 

But the money transfers funding the rebellion aren’t the only recorded transactions. At the time, Dean was also sending money to the Union. Meeting with Union party officials. To people on the opposite side of the fence, people with directly opposite goals. Although, there’s a narrowing pattern to Dean’s meetings. Early on, he donated to numerous Union party members. But later, entry after entry, it’s only McCarthy. The log of their interactions continues long after Dean had apparently cut ties with the rest of the Union. Even as late as just before the Cup win – just before the first shots were fired. 

Tyler sits back against the office chair, breath caught in his chest. He tries to come up with plausible explanations. Maybe Dean was just – just covering himself? Covering his actions, currying favor with the conservatives to lull them into thinking what was going on out west was nothing worth worrying over? 

Dean had been so insistent that if Tyler’s father told him anything, or gave him anything, that Tyler was to turn it over to Dean. If Tyler closes his eyes, he can still hear Dean’s warnings. 

So he knew then, that these records existed. And he didn’t want Tyler to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. 

But now, Tyler does know. The proof he didn’t have before is all spelled out, right in front of him. The electronic parallel of what Wayne must have been doing in person. 

The record of Dean playing both sides. Hedging his bets. The whole time. 

When Tyler knew him. When he held Tyler, when he lifted Tyler in his arms, when he taught him to skate. When he sheltered Tyler, when he told him to work harder on his crossovers, when he trained him in leadership. When he watched Tyler’s parents leave him. While he held Tyler while he cried, and while he made Tyler promises over a phone, half a continent away. 

The whole time. 

 

 

It’s hard to say what time it is when Tyler finally pushes away from the computer. The curtains are drawn tight against the sun, and since Tyler’s sleeping patterns have wandered far from normal, the hour is hard to judge. 

He stretches, his back cracking, then looks back at the computer. Dean’s name is all over the screen. Something cold creeps over Tyler’s skin. He turns off the monitor. He listens to the slowing whir of the mechanical parts of the computer. The air in the office is close and stale. He rests his head in his hands. 

Dean, he thinks, has set himself up nicely. Leaving the sinking ship of the Union at just the right time, but maintaining at least one of his bridges unburned. But if he really fomented a revolution – and he _did_ , because the fighting was real and the bombs were real and the deaths were real – Tyler knows that. Knows that deep down in his bones in ways he’ll never be able to forget – then why go to all that trouble to keep his connection with McCarthy intact? 

The proof is indisputable. The evidence is all right there. Clear as day, for anyone with access to see. Tyler’s thoughts pause. Which means, effectively, just him. Just Tyler and what remains of the Union’s inner circle. Everyone else is in the dark. 

Tyler looks at the wall that separates the library office from the hallway and beyond that, from the Richards’ kitchen and living area. Jeff’s out there, and even though he’s left Tyler alone, Tyler knows Mike’s out there, too. Do they know, he wonders. Do they know that the man they’ve been working for has been exchanging information with one of the most powerful men on the side they’ve presumably been fighting? 

What would be worse – that they don’t know? That they’re in the dark about what Dean’s been up to? Or that they do. That they know, and that both of them also have these split loyalties? 

Tyler’s head hurts. Mike hasn’t demanded to see the database, even though Tyler knows he must be curious. He must know how useful it would be to him. That has to be Jeff, he thinks. Jeff is keeping him sheltered, keeping Mike or anyone else from forcing him to turn the card over. Buying him time. That feels like something Jeff would do. 

His time is going to run out, though. The knowledge that Tyler has unlocked access to the database has already made its way out to the people of the Lake. Which means the news is probably also already on its way to Toronto – if it’s not there already. It’s not just Mike and Dean who want that information – McCarthy wants it too, Tyler knows that much. And beyond them – there’s probably plenty of people Tyler doesn’t even know about who would snatch this out of his hands the first chance they got. The dam holding them back has to break. And even Jeff’s sway over Mike’s decision making can’t shelter Tyler forever. Which means Tyler needs to make a decision about who to trust, who to tell all this information to. And soon. 

He could turn the card and its information over to Mike to do with what he will. Or even now, it’s not too late to hand it back to Dean, who clearly has some plan, even if Tyler can’t see the endgame. He even imagines, he could hand it over to McCarthy. That might be the safest thing. McCarthy has the most power to make sure nothing ever touches him. He would be a useful friend to have. 

The pounding in Tyler’s head is growing. 

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then stands. He makes his way to the door to the main room of the library. 

Tanner is in his usual place, sprawled on the couch, a book in one hand and an apple in the other. He looks up when Tyler appears in the doorframe. He swallows a bite of apple. “What’s up?” 

Tyler sags against the door, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I need to – I need to not do that for a while. I need a break.” 

Tanner watches him expectantly, and Tyler crosses the room towards him. He drops down on the couch next to Tanner. He nods at the book. “Will you read that for a bit?” 

“Out loud?” 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s not – ” There’s hesitation in Tanner’s voice. “It’s not one of your fancy books. It’s about these two cowboys. There on a cattle drive.” 

“Perfect.” Tyler lets his head drop back and closes his eyes. “Perfect.” 

There’s no way Tanner missed the exhaustion in Tyler’s face, or the strain in his voice, but he doesn’t press. Tyler feels him resettling himself on the couch, hears the noise of the apple being set aside, and then Tanner begins to read. 

Tyler doesn’t pay any attention to the words; they float in one ear and out the other. If Tyler’s life depended on it, he couldn’t have recounted one thing that happened on the page, but Tanner’s voice washes away the sickly cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, and makes the horrible sense of dread ebb from his thoughts. Behind them, a fan on the table pushes the air around, but the room is still warm. Tyler leans against Tanner’s shoulder anyway, and Tanner lets him. 

Tyler can feel the blood-warm heat of Tanner’s body radiating out and into him. 

He turns with mindless exhaustion into the focal point of that heat, pressing his face into the skin of Tanner’s throat. He can feel the lively, jumping pulse of Tanner’s blood just under the skin. He tastes the salt tang before he even realizes he’s parted his lips. 

Tanner’s reading falters. 

He listens to Tanner breathing and swallowing. Otherwise motionless while Tyler traces the rise and fall of Tanner’s Adam’s apple with his tongue. 

Tyler retreats, pulling back just enough to break contact, and waits. He holds himself just as motionless as Tanner; waiting for his response. Waiting to see if he’ll bolt, or turn towards Tyler’s offer. 

Tanner makes a low noise, one that Tyler can feel more than hear. He turns, with that fluid grace that was always his, toward Tyler and not away. His mouth opens against Tyler’s, and his hands come up to pull and hold close, one shift of his body to re-make their whole geography. 

Tyler closes his eyes. Tanner is heat and pressure against his lips, the sound of lightly ragged breathing, the lingering sweetness of the apple, the smell of sweat. 

Tyler slides his hands under Tanner’s shirt. He touches the smooth planes of muscle. The light gathering of hair, the dips and rounds he still knows by heart. He feels Tanner’s hands come up to grip him, a hand on Tyler’s jaw, and his mouth finds Tyler’s mouth. 

Tyler traces his lips, parted in an uncertain curve, like a person caught somewhere between laughing and crying. 

Tanner’s mouth dips against his again, more of his weight over Tyler, more urgency behind it, like he’s trying to nudge Tyler out of some dreaming state. 

Tyler opens his eyes. 

Tanner is so close. His eyes are so wide, they gather all the light in the room and concentrate it into sparks. Tyler kisses him. He moves against him. They lose their clothing. They touch each other in ways that are simple and direct, are about answering urgent, base needs. And at the same time, are not simple at all, have never been simple, and have always been not just about pleasure, but by their very exercise, been the definition of who they are. 

The room is full of the sharp smell of their bodies and their slap-creak rhythm and half-swallowed sounds. 

Sweat-glazed, they slide against each other. Tyler can feel the gravity in him shifting, gathering. His fingers clench like he could etch this memory into Tanner with his hands alone. The muscles of his thighs tremble, and beside him Tanner’s face has broken open into ragged gasping. He opens his eyes at the last second, open-mouthed and breathless, he looks at Tyler. Tyler gives himself up. 

When they’re still, and the room is quiet, Tyler turns into the curve of Tanner’s throat again, says against the skin, “I love you.” 

Tanner’s hold on him tightens. His eyes gaze up at the ceiling and his lips are parted like he might speak, although for a long moment, there’s no sound. “I’m still fucked up in a lot of ways.” The words are followed by a nervous, almost-inaudible laugh. 

Tyler sighs and turns to look toward the ceiling too. “I’m not doing so great myself at the moment.” 

Tanner laughs again, louder this time, and startled, like Tyler’s response caught him by surprise. “We’re gonna be okay,” he says. 

And in the dark, it’s to Tanner that Tyler whispers out all the secrets he’s gathered. To Tanner’s silence and tightening arms around him, he spills what he’s learned and all the fears he’s gained. 

In the dark, the whole night universe feels like it’s spiraling out from Tyler’s chest. Dark and endless and changing. He is tiny before the huge scope of it. But he is here. He is breathing, existing, spinning forward to drum of his own heart. 

He is here in the dark, but not alone. His heart beats with Tanner’s there to echo. His hand held in Tanner’s hand. 

 

 

In the morning, it’s not Jeff who edges quietly into the room and whose near-silent presence Tyler has come to expect; it’s Mike. And he doesn’t bring coffee or breakfast; he brings news. 

Mike’s hands twist over each other. He keeps looking back toward the door. “I’m leaving for Toronto day after tomorrow.” 

Tyler blinks in surprise. Time has slipped past him. The shape of his days has been so vague, and at Mike’s words, he glances, illogically, toward the window, like the whole season might have changed without him noticing. Or like something about the light might tell him how many days he’s passed inside. 

Mike’s words weren’t a question, but he does seem to be awaiting a response from Tyler. And even after Tyler’s brain has registered that, he’s unsure how to respond. “Oh,” he says, voice devoid of any real feeling. 

Mike frowns. “I know – ” He hesitates again, and Tyler can see him struggling with the words, uncomfortable with the sentiment. “I know you’re still – mourning, but. I wanted to ask if you were planning on going back with me.” 

Back to Toronto. The last time Tyler was there feels like it came from a different lifetime. Some other Tyler was there, not him. Some other version of himself made coffee and ferried papers and lived with Mike and Jeff in that cramped apartment. Some other version of Tyler that really believed they were working towards trying to build a better world for people to live in. 

He stares at Mike, wondering what exactly he wants to accomplish in Toronto. The uncertainty of last night about whether Mike and Jeff know about Dean’s two-sidedness returns to him. But Mike is no idiot; he’s certainly not naïve, and with Mike standing right in front of him, it’s impossible to believe he doesn’t know. 

Mike is the one who kept dodging the questions about why Dean wasn’t at the Assembly. Mike is the one Dean is sending letters to in order to get information about his neighbor’s assets without their knowledge. Mike must know. 

And as Tyler watches him, it occurs to him that Mike was probably also told to hold onto him. To keep Tyler close, and closely watched. 

Anger stirs in him, curdling into a pit in his stomach. The whole thing is a charade. The whole Assembly is a façade, with Dean or McCarthy or both pulling puppet strings to get the scene just exactly how they want it. Tyler feels sick, and he can feel a snarl of anger building just behind his clenched teeth. 

Mike shifts on the carpet in front of him, eyes darting around the room, not resting anywhere, not looking at Tyler. 

Voice steeped in bitterness, Tyler asks, “Is it me you want with you, or is it the database card?” 

Mike’s eyes lock on his, his posture stills. He doesn’t look uncertain or abashed anymore, but he does look mad. “I could use both.” His voice is flat. 

At least he’s honest about that much. He could have, Tyler supposes, ripped the memory card from Tyler’s possession. He has the power out here. He could do that, if he wanted to. 

Maybe he’s afraid Tyler would destroy it if he tried. Maybe he’s afraid Tyler would run again. Or maybe he and Dean are still trying to convince Tyler they’re on his side. 

Even with the bright summer sun streaming in, Tyler shivers. A cold realization settles like a weight on his shoulders. This is why his father gave him the memory card. Not so Tyler could hand it over to the person best fit to deal with it, but to give Tyler the ability to negotiate with powerful people. 

When he gave Tyler the memory card, he gave him a bargaining chip. 

An ache wells in Tyler’s chest; a stone forms in his throat. His father gave Tyler a way to barter for his own safety, even after he himself was long gone. 

But the thought of allying himself with either McCarthy or Dean just makes his guts twist. The whole thing is corrupt. They’re just choosing which veneer to paint on a rotten core. 

At Tyler’s side, a sudden warmth seeps into him. Tanner has settled his hand over Tyler’s. His arm is pressed up against Tyler’s arm. As dramatic a gesture of physical affection as he’s ever offered in front of anyone besides Jeff. Even if everything waiting for him in Toronto wasn’t awful, Tyler would be an idiot to leave this again. Not when he said he wouldn’t. Not when this connection is the only thing holding him together, and the only real, important thing he’s ever done. Tanner, next to him, is what matters. Tyler looks at Mike and shakes his head. “No. I’m not going back.” 

Mike hesitates one long moment, but he doesn’t try to convince Tyler of anything. He nods. “You change your mind, you know where to find me.” 

Tyler watches him leave. He blows out a long breath when Mike disappears through the door. 

He feels Tanner relax, too, but when he turns to look at him, Tanner’s gaze is focused on him, his eyes narrowed. “You’ve been digging information out of the database nonstop, and you aren’t going to use it?” 

The vehemence in Tanner’s voice is surprising, and for a moment, Tyler just blinks. Feeling defensive, Tyler pulls his arms in close to his chest. “The whole Assembly is a corrupt shit show.” It’s hard not to sound bitter, but looking at Tanner, Tyler softens. “Besides, I said I wouldn’t leave you again. I meant it.” 

Tanner doesn’t look pacified, if anything, his frown deepens. “You told me that there’s evidence in that database that Lombardi has plans he hasn’t told anyone. And I’d bet McCarthy hasn’t been exactly informative with his people, either.” 

Tyler’s not sure what he’s driving at. Staying put at the Lake was a decision that was supposed to make Tanner happy. “Okay, that’s true but – ” 

Instead, Tanner’s starting to look pissed. “What you know – it could change people’s minds about what they want to the future to look like.” 

Tyler opens his mouth, but he can’t get a word in. 

“This Assembly is supposed to decide what the plan is for the whole country. It’s supposed to decide who’s going to be in charge.” Tanner’s words speed up, something urgent threading through his voice. “And you’re going to let them do it in the dark?” 

“I said – ” 

“I know what you said.” Tanner looks at him sourly. He falls silent, his mouth makes a grim, determined line, and he continues to glare at Tyler. 

Tyler pulls back. “I thought you’d be happy I’m staying. What’s wrong now?” 

Tanner’s eyes cut over. “I’m just thinking about how much I hate Toronto.” He pauses, then allows, “Well, more like southern Ontario in general. But still.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” Tyler reaches out and lays a cautious hand on Tanner’s arm. His throat is tight. “I’m done dragging you places you don’t want to be. Especially when you’re finally happy here.” 

“No,” Tanner says, looking him in the eye. “This time I’m dragging you.” 

 

 

Tyler caps his pen. Flicks the cap off. Caps it again. Flicks the cap off again. This time, he manages to lose it. The cap goes skittering across the floor and under the table. Tyler glances after it, but the cap is lost to sight. When he looks back up, Mike is looking at him, mouth turned down. He looks pointedly from Tyler to the nearly empty notepad in front of him. 

Tyler is supposed to be taking notes for him, and Tyler makes a renewed effort to drag himself out of his fog and pay attention. 

But beyond the walls of the Assembly chamber, it’s a nice day outside. Maybe Tanner is at the park. Or maybe he’s sleeping in, still in the closet-sized studio they’re sharing. 

In preparation for going to Toronto, Mike had said that three people in his apartment had been madness, but four people was a sheer impossibility. And Tyler hadn’t argued. He and Mike are only just barely getting along during working hours; there’s no need to add in more time together on top of that. 

His thoughts sour, Tyler’s attention wanders again. Maybe Tanner took Mike’s dog out. Dog walking being the extent to which Tanner was willing to be invested in Mike’s affairs. 

The meeting has gone on long enough that the rest of the audience is shifting restlessly, too. The room at large appears just as bored as Tyler. Thankfully, the speaker seems to be wrapping up. Tyler glances around. He’s sitting with Mike and the handful of other Players who showed up to this general Assembly meeting. To their right are the Independents. Front and center among these, Representative Stevens is doing a very polite version of a bored face. And next to her, Cynthia sits in a near-identical pose, near identical expression of placid tolerance on her face. A page full of notes diligently filled out in front of her. 

Across from them, are the Unionists. Tyler’s eyes slide past them as quickly as possible. McCarthy is in the front row, and Tyler doesn’t want to be caught looking. Two weeks into the new Assembly session, Tyler still hasn’t worked up the nerve to speak to him, and he can’t shake the feeling that if he and McCarthy make eye contact, McCarthy might somehow just _know_ about the memory card in Tyler’s possession. 

Then again, maybe he already does. 

“Thank you for those comments,” Representative Stevens cuts the last rambling remarks of the speaker short. “I agree that the Hamden compromise is something we will have to re-visit – ” 

Next to Tyler, Mike very audibly scoffs. 

Stevens’ eyes flick to him, then away. “As I was saying – ” 

Mike clears his throat. “Last time we couldn’t agree on one single solitary thing about how an election would even work. We don’t need to address it again, because anybody with a brain can see the idea is never going to get off the ground.” 

From her seat next to Stevens, Cynthia is glaring directly at Tyler. As if Mike’s attitude were somehow Tyler’s fault, and as if she expects him to do something about it. Irritated, Tyler glares back. What’s he supposed to do? Tyler’s been able to get Mike to jack shit all summer and it’s not like that’s suddenly going to change now that they’re back in Toronto. If anything, Mike’s spent the first two weeks of the session ignoring Tyler even more than usual. 

Sure, he’s been happy enough to have Tyler make copies and run errands, but the minute Tyler opens his mouth about, say, not burning bridges or not shooting down every idea that crosses his path, Mike’s got no time for him. 

Tyler presses his lips together. If Mike thinks ignoring him is somehow going to get Tyler to hand the memory card over, then he’s got another thing coming. Tyler’s looking for results. This session of the Assembly was supposed to be different. They were supposed to get things done. 

And yet here they are. Tyler watching Mike shoot himself in the foot. Again. 

Cynthia is still glaring at him. She rests her chin in her hand, one manicured nail tapping against her lips. 

Again, Tyler wants to ask, what exactly does she expect him to do about it? 

He can’t speak at this meeting because – 

Actually, technically, there aren’t any rules that say you have to be a Representative to speak at this meeting. They can’t say he’s not qualified – nobody elected these Representatives, they’re mostly self-selected – and Tyler’s the one who spent this summer collating letters from the other Reps to Mike. He’s the one who’s been drafting the new division plan based on their comments. He’s even the one who’s spent the last two weeks sitting in on as many meetings as possible, trying to figure out a way to help Mike push things forward. 

Not that Mike seems to want his help. 

But maybe that doesn’t matter. They’ve been at this for two weeks without making any progress, what are people going to say – he’s going to slow things down? 

Tyler swallows. “How are we supposed to find out if it’s a feasible idea if you keep shooting it down before we can discuss it?” 

Mike turns towards him and stares. 

Tyler takes a deep breath. “You’re not offering us any better ideas. You’re shooting things down just to shoot them down. This is important, it deserves discussion – ” 

Mike’s face darkens. “We’re not going to discuss some dead-end – ” 

“You don’t know it’s a dead end.” Tyler snaps. He can feel the eyes of the room on him, and he can feel his face getting red, but he pushes on. “That’s the point. I’ve looked into it, I don’t think it’s as impossible as you seem to think it is.” 

A smooth voice from across the room interrupts. “As unlikely as it might be, I agree with Mr. Richards.” McCarthy smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It would be good to have some indication a plan is feasible before we turn the fate of the nation over to it or invest in debating it. No person has come forward that this body of representatives has been able to agree is a feasible candidate. And if that is true, I doubt very much the capricious public can be expected to agree on a choice. And in the name of progress, I think our first vote should be a simple one: to remain a Union or divide into states.” 

McCarthy finishes speaking and looks directly at Tyler. 

The words of Tyler’s argument die in his throat. Whatever courage possessed him when he interrupted Mike flees before McCarthy’s focused gaze. 

All thoughts of the Assembly fade, and instead Tyler wants to ask McCarthy if he spoke to Dean today. Does he really care one way or the other if the Union stays in tact, if he has plans with Dean either way. 

McCarthy’s eyes don’t reveal any answers. A sudden cold feeling grows in Tyler’s stomach, and he looks away. 

The second Assembly has only just started, but McCarthy is already hard at work, doing what he and Dean no doubt plotted out. Very slowly, and without anyone even realizing it, he’s going to narrow their choices by narrowing their very thoughts of what is possible. Tyler can still hear McCarthy’s voice ringing in his head. _Illinois. The Red._

“If there are no counter arguments, I believe we can call a close to this meeting?” McCarthy’s voice slips smoothly over the crowd. 

The are no counter-arguments. The Representatives begin to file obediently out of the room. 

If there’s a vote, either McCarthy will be handed his Union back in one gulp, or, they’ll divide into states. And then, Tyler realizes, watching a small, satisfied smile curve McCarthy’s lips as he watches everyone leave, it won’t matter, because he’ll just crush them and take them all back. 

One by one. 

 

 

Tyler sits for a moment in the emptying meeting room. He watches the crowd disperse out the door, and lets his head drop into his hands. He rubs at his temples; his heart is still going hard in his chest, leftover adrenaline from speaking up in front of all those people still buzzing under his skin. 

He stands, hoping everyone has cleared out, but luck isn’t with him. Mike is waiting for him in the lobby. 

Tyler pauses in the doorway and braces himself. Whatever confrontation he and Mike have been inching towards, it looks like it’s happening sooner rather than later. 

Mike’s gaze shifts, and he’s still glaring, but now it’s not at Tyler. Tyler follows his gaze and spots McCarthy’s aide on the other side of the room. As soon as he sees Tyler’s spotted him, he stands and starts crossing towards Tyler. 

Tyler shakes his head. “Whatever it is, now is not a good time.” 

The aide grins tightly. He doesn’t look nearly as smug as he usually does. “I just – ” 

“I don’t care what you want. We don’t have any new drafts for McCarthy, I’m not giving you an early copy, I don’t care what he said – ” 

“No,” the aide interrupts. “I’m just here to give you this.” He sounds deeply unhappy about what he’s saying. In his extended hand is a square white envelope. 

Conscious of Mike’s eyes on him, Tyler takes it gingerly. “What is this?” 

“Councilor McCarthy is having a party for the Assembly Representatives.” The aide clears his throat, his dislike for the words clearly making them stick. “He has also extended an invitation to you.” 

Tyler holds the envelope in his hand. The slip of paper feels like weighs a hundred pounds. 

“He says,” the aide manages through gritted teeth, “that it would be an honor.” He leaves with Tyler still standing there frozen, hand still extended, lips parted but without absolutely no idea of what to say. 

“Lucky you,” Mike says. 

Tyler turns to find Mike standing next to him, a sardonic expression on his face. 

“Mike – ” 

“What a good chance that’ll be to catch up with your old friend.” Mike shows his teeth when he smiles. 

Tyler narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I don’t know. Seems like you’ve become pretty friendly with McCarthy.” Mike pauses. “I thought maybe it was a family thing.” 

Tyler’s jaw tightens. “Don’t be an asshole. I don’t know why McCarthy would invite me anywhere, I’m not his friend.” 

“You sure about that? Because you seemed pretty comfortable stabbing me in the back in that meeting.” Mike’s a lot closer now. Close enough and looking mean enough that the hairs stand up on the back of Tyler’s neck. 

Tyler can feel new adrenaline gathering in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots someone slink across the lobby and he makes an effort to keep his voice down. “Is that what this is about? I’m allowed to have opinions. I’m allowed to disagree with you. Especially when you’re _wrong –_ ” 

“You’re either helping us, or you’re helping them, and – ” 

“That’s bullshit.” Despite his best efforts, Tyler’s voice rises. He spots someone else crossing the lobby and he waits until they disappear before continuing. “McCarthy agreed with _you_ in that meeting, not me. So I don’t know where you’re getting this – ” 

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep everyone together?” Mike, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care whether they have an audience or not. “Do you know how important it is for the Players to show a united front?” His hand cuts through the air, an angry sweep that comes close to hitting Tyler in the face. “They’re the ones who’ve been in power. They’re the ones who know how to run things. They’re the ones with all the resources. Being united is the _only_ weapon we have.” 

“I’ve been trying to help you, if you would just listen to me – ” 

“You think you’re so important. Whatever you want to say, you can’t run it past me. You have to just spout it off in the middle of a meeting – ” 

Tyler sees red. “I _have_ said it to you. I’ve said over and over to you that what we’re doing won’t work. And you won’t _listen._ ” Tyler leans in. “You haven’t listened to a single thing I’ve said all session.” 

Mike’s mouth twists, unimpressed. 

Which makes Tyler even angrier. “I know why, too,” he spits. “It’s because you don’t care. You don’t actually give a fuck about what’s best for your people or this country.” 

Mike freezes, a flush staining his cheeks. 

“You’re only here because Dean Lombardi called you to heel, and like a dog you came – ” 

Mike hand closes into a fist gripping the front of Tyler’s shirt. Mike shoves him hard. One step back, two, until Tyler’s back is against the wall. His collar is tightening around his throat. He’s one second away from getting hit, and his whole body leans into it. Adrenaline thrumming through him, waiting, waiting – 

“You stupid fuck,” Mike says. “You ignorant, stupid, cocky fuck. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“It’s stupid to care about people, then?” With every breath, Tyler can feel Mike’s fist pushing into his chest. “Just because I care about more than what’s best for me and twenty guys I maybe played hockey with, you think I’m some sort of asshole?” 

“You think I don’t care about other people?” 

“I think you care about _your_ people. This has to be about more than that. This has to be about more than what you want, or what the Lake wants, or what the Players want.” Tyler grabs a breath and presses on. “The people I saw in Chicago and Montreal and up north need things and if we don’t help them, we’re gonna be right back here in a year. But you don’t care. You say you want a united front, but really the only thing you want is whatever Dean tells you to want.” 

Mike’s face is twisted now in a look of disgust. “So you’re willing to sell out to McCarthy – for what? For some nameless bit of good for people who you don’t even know _what_ they want, much less how – ” 

“I’m not selling out to McCarthy!” Tyler tries to knock Mike’s hand loose and fails. “I’m trying to do what’s best. You’re the one selling out. You know I’m right. You wouldn’t be so mad if I wasn’t right. You follow Dean blind. I hope you’re at least asking yourself why. I hope you’re asking yourself if he’s worth it – ” 

All at once, Mike lets go of him. He shakes his head, and he laughs – bitter and breathy and disbelieving. He looks half crazy. He looks like he could do anything. 

Tyler’s throat goes dry. 

Mike leans in until their faces are just inches apart. In a voice that’s hardly more than a whisper, he says, “You will never understand what we went through.” 

Tyler can’t look away, so frozen he can’t move. 

Mike smiles again, that same strange, twisted look. “All you need to know, is that Dean Lombardi gave me Jeff back. He gave me Jeff back, and for that, I’d send everybody else on earth to hell if he asked me to.” 

Mike takes a step back, then another. He brushes his hands together, as if washing them clean of something. “And for what it’s worth,” he says, already half-turning to go, “in my position, I think you’d do the same damn thing.” 

 

 

The shadows are long by the time Tyler makes it back to the apartment. He glances up from outside the building, but there’s no light visible in their window. Tanner must still be out. Tyler tries to push disappointment out of his thoughts as he climbs the stairs. It would have been nice to have someone waiting for him. Especially after a day like today. 

In the hall, Tyler digs in his pocket for his keys, but the door swings open just before he finds them. Tanner is standing in the entry, jacket shrugged halfway off. “I literally just walked in,” he says. “Good timing.” He makes room for him to come into the narrow hall that leads into their tiny room. 

Tyler kicks off his shoes. “You were out late. Did you take Mike’s dog out?” 

Tanner slips past him to go to the sink, where he starts washing gray dust from his hands and arms. He throws a look back at Tyler. “What? No. I got a job at the construction site around the corner.” 

Tyler frowns in the midst of taking his jacket off. “You got a job at a construction site?” 

“I want to keep busy.” He seems oblivious to Tyler’s concern, but then, he also wasn’t party to Tyler’s illusions about coming home to someone waiting up for him. “I can pick up some building skills this way. Besides,” he kisses Tyler on the cheek. “Somebody’s got to rebuild this city.” 

He’s smiling at Tyler, and this, Tyler thinks, this could be good, too. “Just don’t fall off a roof or something.” Tyler slumps into one of the kitchen chairs. 

Tanner snorts. He’s already turning toward the fridge, pulling out what looks like leftovers. “I can take care of myself. You’re back late, too.” He pauses, and gives Tyler a sharper look. “Did something happen today?” 

Tyler shrugs. He traces patterns on the tabletop in front of him. “Mike and I had it out. Finally.” 

Tanner steps away from the fridge. It doesn’t take him more than two steps to cross the small space to Tyler. He tilts Tyler’s chin up, and stares down at him. “Are you okay?” 

“Not like that – nobody got punched.” 

Tanner raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m fine.” Tyler shrugs again. “It was – coming, you know?” 

Tanner still looks skeptical, but he lets his hand fall away and moves back toward the fridge. “What set it off then?” 

Tyler stands and reaches for clean plates to start setting the table. “All I did was disagree with him in the Assembly meeting.” 

Tanner snorts. “Let me see if I can translate that – so, you called him out in front of the entire Assembly?” 

Tyler pauses in the middle of setting out forks. “Well.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Tanner sounds altogether too smug. “Okay, yes, I guess you could interpret it that way. But then he accused me of selling out to McCarthy. Mike thinks just because I’m not giving him the memory card, I must be giving it to McCarthy.” 

Tanner slides the container into the microwave and turns to look at him. “Have you decided not to give it to Mike, then?” 

Tyler looks away. “I haven’t decided what to do with it.” An uneasy feeling is rising in his chest. If he’s going to protect himself, much less help anyone else, his best play is to ally himself with either Dean or McCarthy. But both options leave a sour taste in his mouth. “And I don’t know what to do now. If Mike doesn’t want me working for him anymore – and I’m pretty fucking sure he doesn’t – then what am I even doing here?” 

The microwave dings and Tanner sets the food on the table with a thump and settles into the chair across from him. “Eat.” 

Tyler scraps some of it onto his plate morosely. “Seriously. What am doing here?” 

Tanner’s chewing. He doesn’t offer a response. 

“There’s no way I’m gonna go work for McCarthy. And it doesn’t feel right working for the Players, because I don’t trust Dean. And – ” Tyler points a fork at Tanner. “I’ve tried writing and re-writing their division plan a million different ways and I can’t even convince _myself_ it sounds feasible, much less anybody else.” 

Tanner makes a face. 

“And – I _know_. I know you said this Assembly was about helping people. And that we were going to figure out the best way forward. But how am I supposed to do that by myself?” 

Tanner frowns harder. 

“Okay, you’re right. Not by myself, per se. But – without backing.” Tyler sighs. “I’m guessing you’re not going to tell me it’s okay to quit and go home?” 

“Absolutely not,” Tanner says. He doesn’t sound particularly sympathetic. 

Tyler glares at him. “Alright, then. You tell me what I’m supposed to do next?” 

Tanner smiles at him over the rim of his glass. “Sounds like you’re just gonna have to make some friends.” 

“Great,” Tyler says. “Because I’m _so_ good at that.” 

Tanner’s grin goes wider. “Did you just admit to not being good at something?” 

“Shut up. I admit to being bad at stuff all the time.” Tanner doesn’t stop smiling. “Some of the time, anyway.” Tyler can feel his face heating. He shrugs. “I can’t help it if there just aren’t that many things I’m bad at.” 

Tanner laughs. He says, “You are good at this, though. You can do this.” 

He has such faith in Tyler. Unshaken, even after all this time and all of Tyler’s fuck ups. Even though he can’t get Mike to listen to him, and McCarthy just looking at him scares him into silence. He still seems to think it’s unquestionable that Tyler can do whatever it is he sets out to. Tyler swallows past the lump that’s forming in his throat. “I wish I could convince people there’s some other way.” 

Tanner frowns at him. The exact same exasperated expression he got when Tyler was trying to do something too fancy with the puck. He leans towards Tyler, resting his elbows on the table. “Then why not just say that?” 

“No one would take me seriously.” Tyler rubs his eyes all at once exhausted. “Who do I even try to convince?” 

“Like I said,” Tanner’s gaze on him is steady. “You need to make some friends.” 

Tyler looks at him. He’s so infuriatingly rational. Although – something occurs to Tyler. He picks up his fork again. “Funny you should mention that, actually.” He waits for Tanner to sit back and start eating again. “I got invited to this party.” He digs the invitation out of his pocket and slides the card towards Tanner. 

Tanner’s expression immediately goes suspicious. He look back and forth between Tyler and the envelope. After a moment, he reaches for it. He reads what’s inside, then sets it down again and looks at Tyler. “You gonna go?” 

“I wasn’t. But now I’m thinking maybe I should. If not for McCarthy then because everyone else will be there.” Tyler hesitates. “Will you go with me?” 

Tanner blinks at him, almost comically surprised. “You want me to go with you?” 

Tyler sets his fork down and takes the card back. He runs his hands over the thick cardstock, the embossed letters. His uneasiness is a drumbeat now, hammering at the center of his chest. He’s not unaware of what he’s asking. Of what it would mean. 

If Tyler’s going to ally himself with these people, he wants to know who they are. Who they really are, past all masks they’ve tried to show him. And to find that out, they need to know him. They need to know the real him, and that means what he is to Tanner, and what Tanner is to him. He meets Tanner’s eyes. “It says I get a plus one.” 

Tanner sets his fork down too. He’s quiet for a long moment. “Are you sure bringing me is a good idea?” 

Tyler can hear the nerves in his voice, and he watches Tanner’s hands twist together on the table in front of him. “If anyone thinks less of me because – because of who I am, or because we’re together, then fuck them.” He swallows. “That’s why I need to show them. Because I need to know. Whoever and whatever I end up supporting, I’m going to do it as me.” Tyler tries to smile. “And besides, I need you. I’m going to need you to help me.” 

Tanner is his last check. He has to hope that whenever he has to decide, Tanner’s judgment will be light Tyler needs to see be. 

Tanner starts to nod. “Okay.” He sounds unsteady at first, as if he’s unsure of his voice, but he strengthens. “Okay. Yes.” 

Tyler loves him so much hurts. Every day he proves himself braver and stronger than Tyler ever could be. “Thank you.” 

Tanner ducks his head for a moment. When he looks up, there’s a very small but honest smile on his face. “You’ll make the right decision.” 

He sounds so certain. Much more certain than Tyler actually feels. “Don’t let me fuck this up.” 

 

 

McCarthy’s party might be a good place to rub elbows with the rest of the Assembly, but it can’t be the only place. Tyler still needs to do some leg work. 

Where to go first seems obvious. Even if Tyler’s not exactly looking forward to it. He braces himself and knocks on the open office door in front of him. 

Representative Stevens looks up. When she spots him hovering in her doorway, she grins. “Hey, Killer.” 

Tyler ducks his head. “I guess you heard about the – ” He trails off. 

“I heard you had a blow out with Richards in the lobby.” She looks altogether too amused for Tyler’s comfort. “I’m just sorry I missed it. I would of brought popcorn.” 

Tyler winces. “So does everybody know, then?” 

“Oh,” she says, eyes widening with delight. “Yeah. They absolutely know.” 

Tyler presses his lips together. “It’s not funny. It’s - do you have a minute? Can I close the door?” 

“You’re ruining my fun,” she says, waving him into the room. “But sure.” 

Tyler closes the door and sits down across from her. “So. Yeah. Mike and I got into it.” He hesitates. “And actually, I wanted to talk to you about what Mike and I were fighting over.” Tyler takes a deep breath, gathering his courage. She could take everything he’s about to say and use it torpedo Mike. She could use it to stall any kind of progress Tyler could hope to make. Or she could laugh him out of the room. 

Stevens raps her knuckles against the desk to get his attention. “I’m waiting.” 

Tyler smiles tightly. “Sorry.” He takes another steadying breath. “The way I see it, Mike’s pushing to get everybody behind this multi state plan. Not because he thinks it’s best, but because it’s what Dean Lombardi wants. And McCarthy is pushing us – I mean he wants us to believe he’s pushing for a return to the Union, but I really just think he’s trying to rush us into a vote. He’s trying to make us rush into a decision before thinking this through.” He risks a glance at Stevens’ face. 

Stevens’ lips are pursed. “Whether you like it or not, whether McCarthy is pushing for it or not, we do need to make progress.” 

“I know, I know. But – ” Here’s the part where she might or might not tell him he’s an idiot and kick her out of her office. “I think he’s pushing us to make a vote because he doesn’t care how the vote goes. He’s in power either way. I think he’s setting us up to go back to war.” Tyler swallows. “And I don’t think Dean Lombardi cares. I think he might even want that too.” 

Stevens’ face has gone gray. 

“Mike – I think Mike acts like he does because he knows the whole thing is rigged. And he either doesn’t care about that, or he’s pretending he doesn’t care about that. But he knows the vote and the plan don’t matter because Dean and McCarthy are on the same side. And if they’re on the same side, there isn’t anyone to stand against them.” Tyler meets her eyes. She hasn’t called him crazy yet. She hasn’t kicked him out. “But here’s the thing: I think we can.” 

She leans forward, chin resting in her hand. “You’re telling me, you think Dean Lombardi and Cedric McCarthy are working together to steer the Assembly?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re proposing that you…and I… do something about it?” 

Tyler nods. “Yes.” 

She sits back. “That’s not a small thing you’re proposing.” 

“I know.” 

She narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not just doing this because you had a falling out with Mike and now you’re looking for revenge, are you?” 

“No. No.” Tyler leans in, placing his hands flat on her desk. He needs to be convincing without sounding desperate. “I’m doing this because I want to make things better. Both Dean and McCarthy – they both think they’re the smartest person alive, trust me, I know. But I’m convinced either McCarthy’s gonna get his way, and Dean’s gonna try to lock down the west coast, or Dean gets his way, we divvy up, and they both start gobbling up states.” His hands are drawing diagrams on the table; his words growing rushed. “And when that happens, everyone else is going to get caught in the middle.” 

Stevens’ mouth is a hard line. 

“I’ve – ” Tyler stops and corrects himself. “We’ve all lost people. I think there has to be a better way. Where whoever is in charge is responsible to everyone.” He looks at her. “I just don’t know how to convince people that’s possible.” 

Stevens taps a finger against the desktop. “You’re going to need a lot more than my support.” 

“I know. That’s why I need your help. I need to know who to ask.” 

She looks thoughtful now. “Let me get – ” She hesitates again. “Hang on.” Stevens picks up the phone. “Cynthia, can you bring me our latest call sheet?” 

When she hangs up, her eyes return to Tyler’s. “Lombardi collaborating with McCarthy is news to me, but we’ve also been working on an alternate plan. A version of the Union, but better. With representation, accountability, and hopefully stability.” She studies his face, a dark, sharp focus flickering behind her eyes. “It’s been hard selling people – especially people who fought against the Unionists – on the idea of preserving the Union. But if you’re serious about this – ” 

“I am.” 

“If we had someone who had credit with the opposition. If we had, for example,” she pauses. A small grin touches the corner of her mouth. “Someone who used to play hockey. We might have a chance.” 

Tyler leans in. “Tell me who to talk to.” 

 

 

Tyler spends the rest of the week talking with the Independents Stevens pointed him towards. She looks pleased when he reports back. She and Cynthia are sitting around a conference table, a pile of letter and envelopes in front of them. “Clearly you can be convincing when you want to be.” 

Tyler’s not particularly convinced that it has anything to do with him. Tyler opens his mouth to say so. 

“Careful, you’re going to give him a big head.” Cynthia interrupts her envelope-stuffing work to grin at him with a smugness he recognizes from their classroom days. 

Tyler glares back. 

“Of course,” Stevens continues, “you’ve mostly been preaching to the choir.” She takes a sit from a giant mug of coffee and motions for him to sit. “You know for this to work, we are eventually going to have to bring a good number of either the Unionists or the Players on board.” 

The weight Tyler’s been feeling all session settles even heavier on his shoulders. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” 

“Have you talked to McCarthy recently?” 

Tyler’s been avoiding McCarthy like the plague. The man is terrifying. “No.” 

Cynthia pauses her work again and gives him a judgmental look. 

“He did invite me to his party, though,” Tyler offers. “I can at least go and make nice with him there.” Preferably in a crowded public space where Tyler won’t have to worry about having one of those conversations where it feels like McCarthy’s already figured out everything Tyler is thinking and is just stringing him along, all punctuated with that terrible, chilly stare. 

Stevens looks up at that. “The party he’s throwing for the Assembly reps?” 

“Yeah, I think, anyway. The one this weekend?” 

“Oh, I cannot _wait_ to see you and him and Mike Richards all in a room together.” She looks delighted. 

Tyler frowns. “Mike’s going?” 

“I don’t know if he’s going. I know he was invited.” Stevens considers. “Of course, it would be the politically smart thing for him to attend, so you never know. He might avoid it just for that reason.” 

“He made such a big fucking deal out the fact that I got an invite.” Tyler shakes his head. “He made it seem like I was betraying the cause just because McCarthy knew my name.” 

“Richie – ” Stevens stops. “Representative Richards has always had rather inflexible ideas about loyalty. But maybe he was just surprised. I don’t know of any other Assembly aides who were invited.” 

“I wasn’t invited and I attended cotillion with his godson,” Cynthia says. “So. There must be something to it.” 

“But you’re not exactly an aide anymore, are you?” Stevens looks thoughtful again. “You do have old Toronto connections. I suppose we could exploit that.” 

“Those people are only interested in deals that are good for them. They’ll smile to your face and knife you as soon as your back is turned,” Tyler tells her. 

Cynthia raises a finger in a gesture of agreement. “That is true.” 

“Well then,” Stevens says. “Like I said. Either the Unionists or the Players. You won’t get the Unionists without McCarthy, and you won’t get the Players without Richards. So it looks like you have either a deal to make or bridge to mend.” 

 

 

It might be cowardice, but two days later, Tyler waits until a time when he knows Mike is in a lunch meeting before he knocks on Jeff and Mike’s apartment door. 

Jeff greets him, eyebrow raised in a question. “Hello, Tyler.” 

“Hey.” He looks at Jeff, body slouched in the door frame, head tilted to study Tyler. The sweater he has on is one Tyler remembers crying into, back at the Lake. For an instant, his throat wants to close at the memories of what Jeff did for him. Even though by any accounting at all, Tyler never deserved his compassion. “Can I come in for a minute? I have a favor to ask.” 

Jeff looks amused at that, but after a beat, he steps aside and gestures for Tyler to enter. “Come on then. I was just putting on coffee.” 

“I suppose you know Mike’s out,” Jeff says from the kitchen. 

“Yeah.” Tyler squeezes into a seat at the familiar tiny kitchen table. He watches Jeff pour water into a battered coffeemaker. “I didn’t think he’d want to see me.” 

Jeff’s mouth quirks, but he doesn’t answer. 

Tyler clears his throat. “I came over to ask if I could borrow a suit.” 

That gets a surprised look out of Jeff. “A suit?” 

“I got invited to this party Cedric McCarthy is throwing.” Tyler pauses. “Maybe Mike mentioned it?” 

Tyler knows Mike would have mentioned it. Most likely, he yelled. 

Jeff gives Tyler a very dry look. “He may have said something about it.” 

Tyler offers an apologetic smile. His hands twist in his lap. “I also wanted to say, I’m not McCarthy’s friend, whatever Mike might think. That’s not – what McCarthy wants for this country, that’s not what I want.” 

“No. We heard you seemed more interested in talking to the Independents.” Behind Jeff, the coffeemaker has begun to make hissing sounds. 

“You heard about that, huh?” 

“In a lot of ways, it’s a very small town we live in.” 

He’s not wrong. “Yeah.” Tyler looks up to find Jeff watching him. “I’m trying to build something. Something I think could be – good. Better.” There’s a tremor in his voice; he needs so much for Jeff to believe him. 

Jeff watches him a beat longer. “I know you’re trying to do what you think is right.” 

Tyler can feel the weight of his gaze. “And do you think it’s right?” 

Jeff hesitates. He turns, fiddling with a rag, chasing the stray grounds on the countertop. “I don’t know. I’ve stayed out of it.” In the quiet, the sounds of the coffeepot and the fluorescent lights, and even the noises of the street coming in through the window behind him seem loud. “Maybe more than I should’ve.” He turns back to face Tyler. “But what I keep thinking about, is that the access you have with that memory card – it’s important. You were able to find out what happened to your parents. A lot of other people are missing someone. Think about what it would mean for other people to have that access. You could help a lot of people.” 

Jeff Carter: still the master of The List. Still intent on fighting by helping people find each other. “I’m not planning on sitting on the memory card forever.” Tyler frowns, catching his lip between his teeth. “Mike wants me to turn the card over to Dean.” He hesitates. “ _Dean_ wants me to turn the memory card over to Dean.” 

He glances at Jeff, and Jeff nods. It’s a tiny gesture, the barest inclination of his head, but it acknowledges so, so much. That he knows what Dean wants. That he and Mike talk to Dean. That they could have told Tyler so much more, so much earlier. 

Tyler swallows. “But – you know, there’s no guarantee if I give the card to Dean, he’d let anyone else use it to access the database. There are things in there that I don’t think he wants everyone to know.” 

Jeff frowns, a faint line creasing his forehead that to Tyler, looks more like uncertainty than any sort of guilt. His fingers knit together, one hand rubbing the knuckles of the other. “Like I said, I’ve stayed out of it.” 

“When I fought with Mike, he said – ” Tyler picks his words slowly, carefully. “He said, he was loyal to Dean because of what happened. Because of what he did to get you out of it. He said that was worth it for him.” 

Jeff swallows. His hands move restlessly now, pushing the rag again and again across the same square of counter. “He – Tyler, you have to understand how bad things were before. Not just – You just have to understand how badly something needed to change.” 

There is pain written on his face. And even from the kitchen table, Tyler can see the white knuckles of his grip on the rag. Jeff’s shoulders are bent, still carrying the echoes of past suffering. And this, Tyler thinks, this is what Mike had meant. That Mike would have given up everything to get him out of this. 

Jeff reaches for coffee mugs, and Tyler can hear the ceramic shiver and clink in his unsteady hands. 

“I know things were bad.” Tyler’s voice isn’t particularly steady, either. “Maybe I can’t ever know how bad. But I lost my parents. I lost my home. And probably, if nothing had changed, I would have lost Tanner.” The words stick like sharp stones in his throat. “And Mike was right when he said that I would have done whatever I could, anything I could, to prevent that.” Tyler pauses, gathering himself. “But we have a chance to make it so things like that won’t happen again in the future. I think we have a real chance to make things better, and we can’t – we can’t waste that.” 

Jeff pours coffee into the two mugs, his eyes down. 

“Will you tell him that?” Tyler listens to the silence stretch. “Please?” 

Jeff sets one of the mugs on the table in front of Tyler, but he doesn’t sit. He cradles the other close to his chest. “It’s not easy to change Mike’s mind. Not even for me.” 

Tyler closes his eyes. A sick feeling of despair is settling over him. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he’d be better off trying to get McCarthy on his side. The thought makes his stomach twist. 

Jeff is still restless. The coffee in his hands still untouched. With a sharp movement, he sets the mug down. “I’ll go get you a suit.” 

He returns with a garment bag slung over his arm. “This should work for what you need.” 

Tyler stands and takes it from him. “Thank you.” His legs feel unsteady underneath him. Jeff’s not looking right at him; there are shadows on his face, the fault of memories that Tyler’s just dredged up. Tyler clutches the fabric in his hands. Jeff’s going to live with those shadows for the rest of his life. But Tyler won’t, and it’s possible that no one else will have to, either. “I have a suit.” 

Jeff’s eyes dart to look at him, confusion on his face. 

“The one I’ve been using for Assembly meetings will be fine for the party, but,” Tyler lifts the garment bag in his hands. “This is for Tanner. I’m going to this party, and I’m bringing Tanner with me. Because that’s who I am. Because I’m going to make a better way forward. Where everyone can be honest and unafraid.” 

Tyler heads for the door. “When Mike comes back, will you just – just tell him that.” 

 

 

The day of the party, Tyler watches Tanner dress in that borrowed suit with a strange sensation climbing around under his skin. 

Tanner’s hands emerge from the sleeves of his shirt and tug awkwardly on the cuffs. He does up the buttons in front of the mirror, smoothing his hand along the pleated fold slow and careful. He does up one cuff and then the other. He looks up to see Tyler watching him, and he rolls his eyes. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Tyler says. Then, “Just - Thank you for doing this.” 

Tanner has his eyes on his own reflection. “Of course.” 

As if there was never any question. “If anyone says anything inappropriate to you, or if anyone gives you any shit at all, tell me and I’ll take care of it.” 

Tanner meets Tyler’s eyes in the mirror, and gives him a pointedly skeptical look. Or possibly he’s just irked Tyler doesn’t think he could take care of it himself. 

“I mean it.” 

“So you’ve said,” Tanner says dryly. He turns his attention back to his buttons. 

Tyler has said something like that several times in the days leading up to tonight, but it doesn’t have anything to do with thinking Tanner can’t handle himself. Tanner can handle himself just fine; that doesn’t mean Tyler’s not going to worry about. Tyler is always going to worry about him. 

“You look like you want to say something.” Tanner turns around, studies him. “You going to tell me again that I don’t have to go? That I can leave whenever I want?” His eyebrows raise. “Maybe you want to tell me who’s going to be there, again?” 

Apparently Tyler’s been a broken record in prepping for this. “No.” 

Amusement is clear on Tanner’s face. “You sure? You could explain the etiquette of introductions to me for the five hundredth time – ” 

“Okay, sorry – clearly I’ve been a little anxious about this.” Tyler ducks his head. “No, I don’t want to do any of that.” He lifts his head to smile at Tanner – who has put up with him not only through this party anxiety, but through this entire session, and who should probably be nominated for sainthood. “How was your day?” 

Tanner narrows his eyes. “How was my day?” 

“Yeah. I’ve been obsessing over this nonstop, and I haven’t asked you lately. So how was your day?” 

When Tanner turns to face him, he looks surprised, but maybe also pleased. “It was good. We laid the foundation today for a whole row of townhouses. It was hard work, but – people need places to live, you know? A lot of the housing has been damaged. Feels good to be giving people a place to live that’s not half falling down.” 

There’s a warm pride in his voice, and Tyler wonders if this is what he still would have done if nothing had changed. If he’d played hockey, and by doing so guaranteed himself some choice in what his life would hold after. He wonders if Tanner thinks about that, about all the roads not taken, and what he’ll never have. 

Tanner grabs his tie from its resting place on the back of his chair and winds it around his neck uncertainly. He hesitates. 

In a world where their revolution had never happened, Tanner would have made the NHL. He would have worn suits every game day, and knotted a tie each time. These motions would have been old habit. Every turn and twist of the fabric requiring no thought at all. But that was a chance Tanner never got. That was something else taken from him. 

But then again, without that revolution, Tanner wouldn’t be standing here at all, just feet from Tyler, and from a bed with the sheets still rucked from desires they would never have been allowed under the way things were. 

Tyler’s heart is full in a way it would never have been allowed to be. “Here. Let me.” He gets up slowly, moving to stand in front of him. Tanner goes still under his touch while Tyler winds the tie into a smooth, even knot. He tightens it and lets his fingertips rest just at Tanner’s throat. He’s watched Jeff do this for Mike a dozen times, but he hadn’t fully realized the care that was involved, how close you had to be. 

Tanner watches him while he works. “You’re good at that.” With Tyler so close, it’s hardly more than a whisper. 

Tyler lets his hands rest on shoulders that are still warm from the shower. “Practice. Just a lot of very boring practice, that’s all.” 

Tanner lets his forehead rest against Tyler’s, just breathing, just for a moment. Then he steps back. He pulls the jacket on, turning to look at himself in the mirror again. His eyes meet Tyler’s in the reflection. “Isn’t this – ” he waves a vague hand at the space between them, “ – still technically illegal? I mean, are you sure we’re not gonna get arrested the minute we show up?” 

_Now_ he has questions. Tyler makes his face very serious. “No, no of course not.” He tips his head toward the east. “Two blocks that way, yes. But here, no.” 

Tanner glares. “Oh, that’s incredibly reassuring, thank you.” 

Tyler steps back from him, sitting on the edge of the bed again. “Most of the post-1990 moral codes are currently in pending-review status, which for the purposes of the Assembly-Specific Toronto-Metropolitan Compromise Accord of – ” 

“Tyler – ” 

“ – of, well, this past June, makes them basically the lowest possible priority. Except for previously agreed-upon exemptions. But those mostly have to do with refuse collection and disposal, which – ” 

“Tyler.” 

Tyler shrugs. “Which seem pretty irrelevant here. And anyway, there’s not currently any funding for _enforcement_ of the moral codes, which renders the whole thing pretty much moot, and – ” 

_“Tyler.”_ Tanner shoves him back onto the bed and crawls up to pin him. 

Tyler blinks up at him, trying to keep his face as innocent as possible. “Yes?” 

Tanner blinks back. “You dick.” 

Tyler grins. 

Tanner leans forward, more of his weight holding Tyler’s arms down, knees braced on either side of Tyler’s thighs. “You think you’re so fucking smart, but I know you.” He’s trying not to smile, but it’s a failing effort. “You’re just spouting a bunch of useless facts, because you think you can distract me.” He gives Tyler a look, and then leans in and kisses him. 

“I don’t know, you look pretty distracted.” Tanner’s face above him is flushed. His hair, still damp from the shower, is falling in his face. 

Tanner kisses him again. He lifts his mouth just long enough for Tyler to catch his breath and then kisses him again, and then again, quick and light, and he moves to free Tyler’s arms, and Tyler can feel Tanner’s smile pressing against his cheek. “Careful, or Jeff isn’t going to want this suit back, and then we’re going to have to pay for it. Which means I’m going to have to get, like, a third job, and you know how I feel about sleeping in on Sundays, and – ” 

Tanner laughs. He climbs off Tyler, shaking his head. “You’re still a dick.” 

Tyler sits up. He reaches out to catch Tanner’s hand. “Thank you for doing this. Seriously. I know it’s not easy. And if you don’t want to, it’s not too late, you – ” 

Tanner looks down at him, one eyebrow cocked. “Is it that you don’t trust me to pull this off?” 

That’s not it. Of all the reasons he has to be anxious, that’s never been one of them. “That’s not it at all.” And Tyler hopes that Tanner can hear it in his voice how true that is. 

Tanner’s mouth twists in his small half-smile. He lets go of Tyler’s hand and rolls his shoulders, straightens his tie, and lifts his chin. “Then let’s do this.” 

 

 

McCarthy’s house is tucked in a still-leafy enclave to the north of the city center. Their cab drops them at the end of a long, curving drive, in front of a towering façade of pink flagstone and white brick, capped by turrets of gray slate. 

Tanner cranes his neck; he gives Tyler a look that speaks volumes without saying a word. 

They’re met at the door by a man in a smart white jacket, who leads them to a living room filled with men in suits, all in some shade of gray or blue. The occasional women in the room dot the crowd with a slightly broader array of color. The wafting scent of cigar smoke clings, even with the doors thrown open to the backyard to reveal a broad, stone terrace, a fountain spouting merrily at its center. 

Surrounding the terrace are what Tyler imagines might be the last untouched copse of trees left in the metropolitan area. 

Tyler and Tanner circle slowly through the room. Tyler nods at the faces he recognizes. When he catches sight of Representative Stevens, he offers a cautious smile. 

Next to him, he hears Tanner muttering under his breath, “Six, seven…” 

“What are you doing?” Tyler asks. 

“Counting chandeliers.” 

Tyler chuckles, low. Plenty of the women, Tyler notices, are smiling at Tanner. Tanner smiles back at them with a perfectly gracious tilt of his head, and just the right amount of impersonal flirtation in his smile. He leans close to Tyler’s ear. “There’s a table over there with champagne on it. You want me to get you one?” 

“God, yes.” 

Tanner snorts before he disappears. 

“Hello, Tyler.” Stevens is dressed in black, a deadly sharp neckline shows off a rise of pale shoulders. 

She looks terrifying. “You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” There’s a knowing pleasure in her tone. “It is fun to get to shed the drabness of working attire for a night.” She smiles at him. “I see you brought your – ” 

“Tanner,” Tyler says. “His name is Tanner.” 

“I look forward to meeting him.” And in this, at least, she sounds sincere. 

Her sincerity is a small balm. Even if it’s an illusion, it still feels like everyone in the room knows exactly what he’s announcing by bringing Tanner with him, and his nerves about what that might mean are making his skin flush, even without the champagne. 

Stevens studies him. “I think it’s good that you came.” She lifts her glass slightly, gesturing around the room. “It’s good for these people to see you here. It means McCarthy has dubbed you worth taking seriously. And that means something to them.” 

All of the people Tyler has talked to over the last few days are here. He can see several of them from where he’s standing. He meets the eyes of one of Stevens’ fellow Independent reps and nods in response to the man’s head tilt. Tyler shifts his attention back to Stevens and shifts uneasily. “I just hope I’m not blowing any chance we have of forming a coalition by bringing Tanner.” 

“No.” Her voice is adamant. “Not at all.” She looks up at him. “McCarthy called you a peer by bringing you here. And you brought Tanner. Which tells everyone here you have the balls to tell McCarthy to go fuck himself.” She smiles, her face beautiful, charming, and devious. 

“Jesus.” She’s not helping his nerves. 

“Don’t be scared of him.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Tyler, what you’re trying to do, if you want it to work you can’t be scared of him.” 

That’s a lot easier said than done. 

Stevens lifts her chin, directing his attention across the room. “The man himself.” 

Just in front of the massive fireplace, McCarthy is holding court, surrounded by a semi-circle of Unionists. They’re laughing at something, gray heads bobbing, firelight glinting off their glasses. Not one of them looks afraid. Not one of them looks out of place here. Tyler thinks they all live in houses like this, and they all attend parties like this all the time. They’ve been breathing the politics of this place, swimming in these waters since before Tyler was born. 

That could have been him. If nothing had changed. If Dean hadn’t started a war, or if his father hadn’t stolen that memory card, thirty years from now it could have been Tyler standing in front of that fireplace, looking as though he owned the world itself. 

“Now’s the time,” Stevens says. “Go show everyone you’re unafraid.” 

Tyler swallows, and from across the room, McCarthy meets his eyes. 

If he just stands here any longer, Stevens might actually give him a push. Tyler steels himself, and crosses the room. 

McCarthy greets his approach with a broad grin. “Ah, Mr. Toffoli. I’m so glad you could make it.” 

Tyler keeps his face neutral. Inside, his stomach is tying itself in knots. “Representative McCarthy. Thank you for inviting me.” 

McCarthy smiles again, this time thin-lipped and predatory. “Of course, of course. I was just telling Marcus here what a difficult man you’ve been to pin down.” 

One of the white-haired men behind McCarthy inclines his head, and Tyler nods at him in return. The rest of the coterie’s eyes linger on him, and Tyler tries not to feel like a rabbit cornered by a pack of hounds. 

“There you are.” Tanner appears at Tyler’s shoulder. He extends a flute of champagne towards him. “Lost you for a second there.” 

Even if Tyler knows the smile on Tanner’s face isn’t genuine, he’s never been happier to see it. “Thank you.” Tyler turns back to McCarthy. “Representative McCarthy, I would like to introduce my partner, Tanner Pearson. Tanner, this is Representative McCarthy, the head of the Unionist contingent and former member of the Union Executive Council.” 

And in case that left any room for uncertainty, Tyler rests his hand on Tanner’s shoulder. 

Tanner extends his hand, the picture of courtesy. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” 

McCarthy hesitates, just a beat, before taking Tanner’s hand. “Likewise.” 

The attention of the men surrounding them that just a second ago had been suffused with smug amusement, now feels like ice. 

McCarthy clears his throat. “Perhaps, since I do have you here, you wouldn’t mind giving me a moment of your time. That is, of course, if Mr. Pearson can spare you.” 

Tanner looks him right in the eye. “Of course. You two must have so much to discuss.” He smiles like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. He is the bravest person Tyler knows. 

McCarthy’s throat works, and for just a moment he looks uncertain, off kilter in his own home. He recovers. Turning to Tyler, he asks, “Shall we?” And with a hand extended in front of him, he shows Tyler towards a smaller room, just off the main space. 

The room appears to be a library, not large, but with a contents that would make Jeff cry with jealousy. The shelves are gleaming wood, their contents protected by spotless glass fronts, but the books themselves look battered and worn. 

Tyler draws closer to a glass covered display in the center of the room. A brown leather book is showcased, gold lettering on the front reads _Das Kapital._

__

“This is my rare book room. All of these are relics of an earlier time.” McCarthy intones. He waves a hand towards the shelves. “Some of these are quite valuable. And, of course, some of them are quite illegal.” 

Tyler glances up. 

“Or, they would be, were they in common circulation.” He taps the display once. “In here, they’re quite harmless. Don’t you agree?” 

Tyler straightens and frowns at him. “Did you really ask me in here to talk about books?” 

Very slowly, McCarthy smiles. He walks around the display table, letting his fingertips trail over the glass. He stops directly across from Tyler. “I suppose you were trying to make a point out there, in the hall?” 

Tyler takes a breath to steady himself. He’s not going to let McCarthy rush him into an answer. He’s not going to let McCarthy throw him off balance. “I was telling you who I am. I wanted to make sure you knew, before you asked to work with me.” 

The smile on McCarthy’s face widens. “And you’re so sure that’s what I asked you here for?” He sounds amused. “To propose some grand alliance?” 

The way he says it, the way he makes it sound so ridiculous, makes Tyler suddenly uncertain. He swallows. He feels ridiculous, and the idea that he could have something to offer McCarthy seems preposterous. 

But just weeks ago, McCarthy was the one calling Tyler into his office. McCarthy was the one gifting him with border passes and going on about Tyler’s insight. Tyler didn’t dream all that. And even now – McCarthy is the one who invited him, a mere Assembly aide, into his home. McCarthy wants something from him. “You want the memory card. And you want to stay in power.” Tyler takes a deep breath. “I know you’re working with Dean Lombardi. I know you two have been colluding to force the Assembly’s hand by narrowing our choices. You’ve been lying to people about what you’re trying to do with this Assembly.” 

McCarthy touches a hand to chest, mock wounded. “I haven’t lied, Mr. Toffoli.” His gaze sharpens. “Lies have such short shelf lives. They rot. I had thought you’d been around long enough to absorb that at least.” He shakes his head, tsking Tyler lightly. “No, the wonderful reality is, lies are unnecessary, because most people can’t see the truth, even when it’s right in front of them.” 

Tyler resists the urge to look away. He stays motionless, even though every instinct he has is telling him to run. “What do you mean?” 

McCarthy smiles again, then turns away. He gestures toward the window. Through the glass, the terrace is lit by strings of lanterns that cast lightly waving shadows across the stonework. “All the accents are limestone, did you know that? Imported from India.” He half-turns to check Tyler that is paying attention before continuing. “This house was constructed in 1936 by a family that made their fortune building some of the first grist mills in the region.” He pauses. “Do you know what a grist mill is, Mr. Toffoli?” 

McCarthy holds perfectly still. His eyes burn into Tyler’s. “It’s a very specialized machine for crushing things. For grinding up whatever you put between its teeth.” 

Tyler’s heart starts to thud in his chest. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

“I know what you’re doing.” McCarthy leans towards Tyler, and his weight on the display case makes the wood groan. “Sneaking around the Assembly, talking to every stray you can find – ” 

“I haven’t been _sneaking_ anywhere – everything I’m doing is right out in the open – ” 

McCarthy pushes on, right over top of him. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish exactly, Mr. Toffoli? You and the rest of the chaff are climbing into the jaws of a grist mill, tell me: what exactly do think is going to happen?” 

Tyler’s blood is ice in his veins. His teeth want to chatter; his hands clench. It would be the easiest thing in the world to give this man what he wants, and Tyler could probably get a nice life out of it in return. He could barter a quiet place for himself and Tanner, and never have to see Toronto again, never carry this weight again, and never stare down fear like this again. 

His throat closes, and even if he knew what to say, Tyler’s not sure he could get a single word out. 

The world would go on, and in his mind, he sees McCarthy and his supporters – still in front of that fireplace, still laughing, as though nothing had changed and knowing nothing ever would. 

But the world did change. The world is changing. 

And if McCarthy and people like him are laughing, it’s only because they haven’t yet realized how far they’ve been left behind. 

If what Tyler was doing was worthless, or pointless, McCarthy wouldn’t be trying to scare him off like this. If McCarthy’s power was as secure as he wants Tyler to believe, he wouldn’t be courting Tyler at all. He wouldn’t be dallying with Lombardi. Tyler sees both actions for what they are: moves of desperation. 

Even before the revolution, he must have been losing power. The Union was crumbling, control was slipping. And in front of him, Tyler doesn’t see a behemoth anymore. He doesn’t see an immovable force. He sees a tired old man, clinging to his last vestiges of power. 

Tyler straightens his shoulders. “What we’re going to do, is build something new. Something better. We’re going to block your vote, and we’re not going to let you steamroll this Assembly. We have the chance to do something real here, and we’re going to take it. That is what we’re going to do.” 

 

 

Tyler’s heart is still racing when he emerges back out into the main hall. He scans the crowd looking for Tanner. He spots him near the bay windows at the far end of the room – standing next to Mike Richards. 

Tyler stills. He can feel the adrenaline of telling McCarthy off still thrumming under his skin. He made one enemy tonight; maybe he can also regain a friend. 

Tanner looks up at his approach, his conversation with Mike falters. 

Mike looks at Tyler for a long moment before nodding a greeting. 

Tyler clears his throat. “I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you’d come.” 

Mike lifts a shoulder in a one-armed shrug. His tie is crooked but his hair has been gelled into a semblance of order. “Well, you know. I heard there’d be an open bar, and –” His mouth twists. He sighs, clearly reluctant to go on. “And, whatever you said to Jeff ruffled his feathers. And you know that shit rolls back on me, so here I am.” His eyes toward Tyler’s face. 

“It’s good to see you,” Tyler tells him, and it is. He and Mike may not agree on much, but he can at least trust Mike to say what he means, and after walking out of McCarthy’s library, that feels important. “There’s been nobody around to complain and dump last minute work on me. It’s been weird.” 

The corner of Mike’s mouth quirks. “Yeah, yeah. Plus I guess somebody’s gotta keep an eye out for you kids in this pit of vipers. Especially if you’re gonna up and abandon Tanner the first chance you get.” 

Tyler winces. He gives Tanner an apologetic glance. “Sorry.” 

“I can hold my own.” Tanner sounds like he can, too. His voice is steady. 

Tyler smiles. “No Jeff tonight, though?” 

Mike shrugs again. “Jeff doesn’t do crowds.” He’s working hard to sound casual, but there’s a darkness lacing his tone. “No crowds, no doctors, no hockey, no knives.” And with that, Mike downs the rest of his drink. 

Tyler swallows. “Listen, I know you went through hell dealing with the Union, but – that’s not me. I’m not with them, I’m not trying to help them.” 

Mike isn’t scoffing, but he doesn’t exactly look convinced, either. 

“I know we don’t agree on everything, but this Assembly doesn’t have to be a charade. I know you know what Dean is pushing for, and I get that owe you a certain amount of loyalty.” 

Mike frowns at him. “That’s putting it mildly.” 

“I get it,” Tyler repeats. “I do. But we have a chance to accomplish something real here. What you and Jeff had to go through – nobody should have to do that. And that’s what I’m trying to do. Why do you think I dragged Tanner out with me tonight? Because this is our chance to demand a voice in shaping the future. Or part of it, anyway.” Tyler’s running out of argument. 

The room around them seems suddenly hostile. Filled with judging gazes and demanding stares. A host of people, all of whose manicured appearances are hiding a hate-filled core. And Tyler’s trying to stand up to all of them, alone. 

Very deliberately, Tanner slips his hand into Tyler’s. 

Mike studies his empty glass. “The Players are gonna see what you want as a compromise position.” 

Tyler’s throat is tight. “We can embrace their value of stability without having to sacrifice our integrity. Compromise doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” 

“You’re gonna be fighting an uphill battle against looking soft,” Mike says. 

“Then I’ll fight it.” Tyler swallows. He curls his fingers tighter through Tanner’s in order to steady himself. “I know I can convince them. I just need your support. I need your help.” 

Mike looks down at their hands, then up at Tyler’s face. His silence seems to last eons. “You really think you can pull something out of this shit show?” 

Tyler nods. 

“Alright, then.” Mike grins at him. “Let’s see you do it.” He drops his glass onto the tray of a passing waiting. “And if you’re done schmoozing, let’s get the hell out of here. I fucking hate this place, and we have a hell of a lot of work to do tomorrow.” 

 

 

The next Players’ meeting is the following day, and it offers Tyler his first opportunity to try to convince a couple dozen hockey players that their best path forward is to stay bound to the same country whose government recently tried to murder all of them. 

Probably shouldn’t use that language in his opening arguments, Tyler thinks. 

Mike raps on the table in front of his seat. “You guys remember Tyler Toffoli from that time he yelled at me, right?” 

Tyler spots a few grins around the room. 

“Well, he has something to say, and,” Mike is wearing an expression that suggests even he himself can’t believe he’s saying this, “I think you should listen to him.” 

Tyler leans forward and clears his throat. “Over the last few weeks, we’ve worked hard on a plan to divide up into thirty self-governing states. I know the ins and outs of that plan, because I worked hard to help draft it.” He pauses. “Despite that, I’m here today to try to convince you that that won’t work. Instead of letting McCarthy push us into a vote, we need to take the time to figure out a new, better way of running the country – ” 

From Tyler’s left, Mike Fisher cuts in, “And what exactly is this leadership supposed to look like?” 

Tyler makes himself keep a neutral face. “Look, we don’t have all of the details worked out yet, but – ” 

“I thought the whole point of having this vote was because we couldn’t work anything else out.” Shane Doan frowns at him. 

Iginla says, “This is just a way of letting the Union win, without having to admit to ourselves we’re letting the Union win.” 

“That’s not what this is,” Tyler insists. 

“I think,” Dubinsky leans forward on his elbows and stares at Tyler, “You’re worried there’s going to be more fighting, and you’re too much of a coward to want to go do any of it.” 

Tyler grits his teeth. 

Before he can answer, Mike fires back. “There’s nothing cowardly about not wanting to watch people you care about die.” 

Dubinsky scoffs. “Mike, you’re just defending him because you’re – ” 

Mike half-stands, leaning towards him. “Because I’m _what?”_

Dubinsky’s jaw clicks shut. He glowers at Mike. “I was going to say, because you’re both in good with Lombardi. I’m sure he’s gonna set you up nice either way.” His glare doesn’t fade. 

Doan says, “I just think we don’t want to be moving backward.” 

“If we can prevent harm we should, but the Union should not be run like it was.” Tyler turns to Doan. “We _have_ to build something else.” 

Fisher frowns. “But you’re not telling us _what –_ ” 

Tyler’s so frustrated that for a moment, he can’t form words. “I am _trying_ – ” 

At the far end of the room from him, the door opens. Tyler catches a glimpse of figures, before the Players at the far end of the table begin to stand and Tyler can no longer see anything, much less be heard over the sudden murmur of voices, much less try to get anyone’s attention back. 

He twists, trying to get a view of what’s going on. Next to him, Mike stands, and goes suddenly stiff. His face is riveted toward the door, with a tone of disbelief in his voice, he says, “Son of a _bitch_ ,” and begins to elbow his way forward. 

Bewildered, Tyler rises and starts to follow. 

Mike forces his way to the front, Tyler close behind him. And there, standing just in front of the door, at the center of tight cluster of former hockey players, Tyler catches a glimpse of a man with dark hair graying at the temples, a curved slope to his shoulders, and the unmistakable pale gray of Dean Lombardi’s eyes. 

Tyler freezes. Dean looks almost exactly like Tyler remembers him – a few more lines around his eyes, more gray in his hair. But clean shaven, dressed in an immaculately tailored suit. And even in the midst of this crush, robed as always, by that heavy, hypnotic aura of calm. 

Dean is moving from man to man, shaking hands with the loose semicircle that has formed around him. Tyler watches him smile as he grasps Mike’s hand, his other rising to settle on Mike’s shoulder. Mike stares back at him, for once, seeming to have nothing to say. 

Dean stops moving when he spots Tyler standing next to Mike. Tyler feels the weight of Dean’s eyes on him, and everything and everyone else around them, disappears. 

Dean says, very simply, “Tyler.” 

His voice is so soft. So warm, like a familiar blanket settling across Tyler’s shoulders. A weight and a cadence that says family. That says home. 

Tyler’s face heats, as a rush of affection floods back. He has loved Dean since he was old enough to feel anything at all, has spent every day of his conscious life wanting nothing more than to impress Dean. To make him proud. Tyler loves him. 

Or at least, he did once. 

Dean looks the same, like nothing has touched him. Like nothing in this last year has affected him at all, when Tyler has lost everything and his world has been torn apart because of this man – this man right in front of him, and his secrets. And he has the nerve to show up _now_ , when Tyler is in the midst of trying to defeat Dean’s plans – 

All at once, he realizes the heat under his skin isn’t affection at all. 

It’s rage. 

Dean’s shoulders are shifting, turning fully to face Tyler, his arms extending for what might be a handclasp, or even a hug. Tyler doesn’t give him the chance. Before he can fully register what he’s doing, before he can even grasp that Dean’s eyes are widening and he’s pulling back, Tyler has his fist raised. He wants to hit him. He wants to strike him, at the very least, he wants to shake the calm out of him. 

His arm is caught by someone and pulled away, and the blow glances wide. It’s Iginla who has caught Tyler’s wrist, and he shoves Tyler back in the center of his chest – a hockey player’s fighting hold, and Tyler doesn’t even hesitate, just switches hands and re-directs and swings. 

Iginla goes back a step, but Mike catches Tyler around the chest and drags him back with surprising strength. “That’s enough, that’s enough.” He drags Tyler out of the circle of Players, out the door, and down the hall, using his momentum to not let Tyler stop until they’ve turned the corner. He pushes Tyler down onto one of the benches that line the hall. 

Mike’s breathing hard. He looks down at Tyler, eyes wide, shaking his head. “What the fuck was that?” 

Tyler doesn’t answer him. 

“Have you gone fucking crazy? Jesus fucking Christ.” He stares down at Tyler and shakes his head again. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. Swinging on Jarome fucking Iginla. Jesus fucking Christ. I thought you were supposed to be a sniper.” 

But Tyler’s barely paying attention, because over Mike’s shoulder, Dean Lombardi appears coming around the corner. 

“I’m a lot of things.” Tyler says it looking right at Dean. He stands. 

Mike turns around. At the sight of Dean, he steps carefully in front of Tyler, one hand on Tyler’s chest, like that might block any future attack. 

Dean smiles at this posture, just a tiny, amused curve. “I appreciate your intervention, Michael. But I think it’s alright. I think Tyler’s calm enough to talk now. Aren’t you, Tyler?” 

As calm as he’ll ever be. Tyler lifts his chin. “Yes.” 

Mike looks skeptical, but his arm drops. 

Tyler doesn’t move, and Dean smiles wider, as if he’d been proven right. “And Tyler and I do need to talk.” Dean shifts his gaze from Mike to Tyler. “Will you walk with me for a minute?” 

“Sure.” A coldness is replacing the heat in Tyler’s stomach. He spares a glance for Mike, and then he turns, and follows Dean Lombardi towards the door. 

 

 

Dean leads him out into the park. They walk for several minutes without speaking. Dean walks confidently, although with no sense of being rushed, down one of the paths that wind through the scattered bushes and stumps of trees. His steps are sure, as if he knows exactly where he’s going. As if he’s been here before. 

He probably has, Tyler thinks. 

The sun is warm overhead, but a breeze washes over them, and after the hot crush of the crowd, the cool air feels good on Tyler’s skin. 

Dean breaks the silence with, “It’s good to see looking well. I missed you.” 

As if he were just popping in for visit. As if this was any other meeting. “My parents are dead,” Tyler replies, his voice flat. 

There’s a hitch in Dean’s step, but he doesn’t stop walking or speak, until they reach a small, circular courtyard, a long-dry fountain at its center. Dean studies the marble, his lips pursed. He says, “I know.” 

“You didn’t tell me. You spoke to me on the phone – last winter, at the Lake.” Tyler stares at him. “We talked. Did you know then?” 

Dean looks at him squarely. “Yes.” 

The answer lands like a blow to Tyler’s chest. “How could you – ” 

Dean offers a paper thin smile. “It didn’t seem like news that should be delivered over the phone, and I wanted to come here and talk to you, Tyler. I wanted to see you, I did, but I couldn’t. The situation out west was too unstable.” 

Tyler doesn’t know if he’s lying. Maybe he never will, but he does know that Dean’s words aren’t the whole of the truth. “I was alone out here. My parents left and you left, and I was _alone –_ ” 

Everything about Dean is motionless. Even his hands have stilled. “I know. I know and I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” Tyler stares at him. “You were too busy to even notice – and I know what you were doing. It’s all in that database.” 

Dean’s eyes cut over at that. A flicker of irritation crosses his face, as if Tyler’s brought up something impolite. 

“Yeah. The memory card my dad took? I found it. And I know what’s on there. I know what it means. The whole time you were helping kick off a revolution in the west, you were helping the Union, too. Did you tell McCarthy everything you did? Did you sell everyone out?” 

Dean doesn’t answer right away, so Tyler presses on. “People trusted you. The Players trusted you with their lives. With their families’ lives – what were you doing? Why were you – ” 

Dean rounds on him. “Do you think anyone in this age is blameless?” His voice is rough. “You think I’m worried about a few wire transfers coming to light? Even the devil keeps receipts for his taxes, Tyler.” 

He does, Tyler thinks. He does. A massive, twisted database worth of receipts. But this is more than that. “You want people to believe they’re making a choice for themselves in this Assembly, but they’re not. It’s all the same thing in the end. It was never about freedoms, it was about putting yourself in charge.” 

“That’s a rather uncharitable interpretation.” His eyes are hard looking back at Tyler. 

Tyler laughs. “How else am I supposed to interpret it? If the Players won out, you’d be all set up to start your own empire out west. If the Unionists won – what did McCarthy promise you? A seat on the council? How many people have died in the last year to get you that?” 

“How many people would have died if I didn’t act?” Dean eyes are darker than Tyler has ever seen. “The Union became something awful. It became something it was never supposed to be.” He stares Tyler down. “But we were outnumbered. Out gunned. We were on the fringes, and it was all we could do to find ways to speak to each other. Do you really think a revolution could have been pulled off as quickly as it was without the help of people inside the beast?” 

“So you – you made a deal.” It’s not hard to imagine now. Dean sitting in McCarthy’s plush office. In the very same chair Tyler sat in, drinking from the same tea service, listening to the same speech. “McCarthy needed help, and so you made a deal to bring down all his competition.” Tyler shakes his head. “Do you know what kind of man he is? He is complicit in everything the Union did, _everything – ”_

“And what the Union did was awful. The Union was eating people alive. But how much longer would it have taken to bring it down without help? How many more people would have died? The very people you’ve been sheltered by, your friends, your teammates – what would their lives have been if I didn’t act?” 

Tyler knows the answer to that: broken. Empty. Anguished. But – “And it’s what – just a convenient coincidence that you were going to end up in charge?” 

Dean’s mouth opens, then closes. He shakes his head. In a much lower voice, he says, “You sound just like Peter.” 

“Well, he’s dead.” Tyler’s voice breaks. “My father’s dead. He’s one of those people that died because of what you did.” 

Dean winces, mouth a tight line. “Then I’ll tell you what I told him. Someone had to do something. It was an act of self-preservation, but it was also the right thing to do. And you don’t know how hard doing something is until you’re called on not to just dream, but act. Actions are never perfect, but even an imperfect concrete act was better than sitting around dreaming about some vague notion of better.” 

Tyler is struck mute. 

“I’m sorry you lost your parents. I’m sorry you were out here alone.” Dean’s throat works. “But I was always watching out for you, just like I have been watching out for you since the day you were born.” Dean pauses, brow creasing, as if in disbelief that this should even need to be said. “I made a place for you in everything I did. I made this world so you would always have a place in it.” 

There is a part of Tyler that wants so badly to believe him. That Dean was always watching over him. That Dean always had his best interests at heart. 

“If the Players succeed in their plans of division, then you will always have a safe place with me in the Black. If the Union remains intact, I have positioned you to be safe there, too.” A tight smile touches Dean’s lips. “Even on the council, one day, I thought.” 

Tyler laughs, even as tears sting the corners of his eyes, because maybe Dean had believed he was watching out for Tyler, but it’s clear he never understood him. “Me? On the council?” 

“Why not?” 

Tyler’s answer comes out more bitter than he intended. “Well for one, I guess you didn’t factor in me being a faggot.” 

Dean glances at him, a look of distaste on his face. “There’s no need to be crude.” 

“It’s not crude,” Tyler presses. “It’s true. It’s me. And I had to _make_ a place for myself.” Forged in the eye of a hurricane. Down among the yard dogs. “You didn’t do that, I did that. And you didn’t help my parents – why didn’t you help them?” 

Dean sighs, low and long, as though this is all a distraction, or something too complex for him to bother discussing with Tyler. 

A terrible thought strikes Tyler. So cold and cruel, that for a second, Tyler can’t make himself voice the words. “After they left me in Manchester, did you betray them? Did you tell the Union where they going?” 

“Tyler – ” 

Tyler’s rage is a terrifying, frozen coldness inside him. “Answer me. Answer me, or you’ll have to build a revolution all over again, because I swear, I will raise an army and I will burn down everything you have ever built. If you don’t believe I can do it – ” 

Dean’s voice cuts in, sharp. “You are the best parts of your father and your mother. You are the closest thing I have to a son, and the best parts of me. Of course I believe you could do it.” 

“You could have saved my dad.” Tyler is crying now, tears rolling unimpeded down his face. “You could have saved him, so why is he dead?” 

Dean’s throat works, jaw tight. For a moment, Tyler thinks he won’t answer. But he does. “He never asked to be saved.” He looks right at Tyler, gray eyes clouded and aching. A gaze that Tyler has met with love for so long that even now his heart tightens in his chest. “The only thing he asked from me, was that I shelter his son. That was the only thing that mattered to him. He was my best friend, and I couldn’t help him, and that is something I will have to live with until the day I die.” 

Tyler shakes his head. The tears are blurring his vision and forming a terrible, choking ball in his throat. “And my mom? You could have at least helped her.” 

“She wouldn’t leave him.” There’s something so sad, and so wistful in his voice, that the words ring impossibly true. 

It hurts. It hurts in its sharpness; it hurts in its truth, and for a moment, Tyler can’t catch his breath. 

They’d given up everything for him. 

Tears are welling in Dean’s eyes, his hand reaches out to rest on Tyler’s shoulder. “I know none of us loved you perfectly, but believe me when I say we all loved you the best we could.” 

And Dean, Dean had given up the rest of his life as well, even as he was standing in front of Tyler now. Had given up any chance of being anything else, and maybe a part of his soul, as well. But he’d changed the world. Not because he’d believed pretty things, or said pretty words, but because he’d taken action. 

Tyler’s throat closes. He’s awash in the ache of the loss of his parents, and his still-hot flares of rage, and a dark and clinging sense of dread. A coldness that is nothing but pure fear. 

 

 

That night, Tyler can’t sleep. His eyes are still raw, his throat still tight with the sense that there is something frightening in the dark ahead of him. He curls close to Tanner, while his thoughts tumble restless over each other. 

Over and over again, he tries to imagine how it should have been. What else could have happened. What the world would have looked like without Dean’s revolution. 

Is there a version of reality that could have unfolded where his parents are still alive? 

In the dark of their room, he tries to imagine how the rest of the Assembly will go. What the room will feel like with both Dean and McCarthy in it, breathing the same air. Will they pretend to fight? Or will the pretense finally be dropped? 

And what if McCarthy is right, what if no matter how clear it is, the members of the Assembly won’t be able to see what’s in front of them? 

Tyler shifts restlessly. How are they supposed to, when Tyler can’t even articulate what exactly he thinks should happen? 

It would be easier if he had come away from today thinking Dean a monster, but he just can’t make himself believe that. The Union did have to change. Someone did have to do something. Not just say they were going to. And maybe what Dean did wasn’t perfect, but it was action. Tyler studies the ceiling above him, but no matter how long he stares, it refuses to impart any answers. 

Tyler shifts again, and Tanner’s arm across his chest tightens, and when Tyler turns to look at him, his eyes are bright in the dark. 

“Dean was right,” Tyler says softly. “He was right to do what he did, and I hate that. I hate it because he was wrong, too. And I just wish it were simpler. I wish it were easy.” 

Behind them, time seems to branch away in a hundred possibilities of what could have been. How many of those branches ended with Tyler here in the dark, alone? And like those options still need warding off, or maybe just because his throat is thick with gratitude for where he finds himself, Tyler takes Tanner’s hand in his. 

With Dean’s arrival, the Assembly will shift into something serious. Decisions will be made. A path forward will be charted. But in front of them, all Tyler can see is a fork in the road. One branch bending towards a shattering of the Union, the birth of dozens of small states, and the chaos that will follow when people like Dean will start gobbling up and annexing anything weaker than themselves. 

Or the other branch, which arcs back towards its origin, where the Union preservers, and people like McCarthy will work as hard as they can to make sure nothing substantial ever changes, and nothing new grows. And Tyler, stuck in the middle – but unable to figure out exactly where to go from there. 

“But McCarthy is wrong, too. And I don’t know – I don’t know if it even matters what I do.” Both paths forward look so treacherous. He looks at Tanner. “I can’t live in a world where you aren’t safe, and I won’t live in a world where I can’t say out loud that I love you.” 

Tanner threads his fingers through Tyler’s. Warm and calloused. Familiar, and so, so strong. “Then don’t.” 

Tyler laughs a little, a thick sound released into the unknown dark. 

“You keep saying we’re here to decide what the country’s going to look like. Isn’t that the whole point of this Assembly?” Tanner shifts, raising himself on one elbow to look at Tyler. “That’s what you said. If that’s true, then we can make it anything.” 

Tyler shakes his head. “It’s not that easy. I have all these ideas – about how we need to talk to each other, about how the people in Toronto need one thing, and the people on the edge of nowhere need something different, but how we all depend on each other. About how people should be safe.” He squeezes Tanner’s hand. “And free.” 

Tyler sighs. “But Dean – he got something done. He was different. He changed things. He acted.” 

Tanner frowns. “Lots of people acted.” 

“Well, he led.” 

Tanner’s eyes are wide and still bright, and focused relentlessly on him. 

Tyler knows what it looks like to lead, now. He’s seen Mike’s exhaustion and McCarthy’s ruthlessness, and Dean’s – he’s seen the murk and gray Dean’s been swimming in. His throat closes. “I can’t.” 

Tanner doesn’t look away. “You can. You’re special.” 

Tyler tries to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat. “Look, I appreciate that you like me – ” 

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.” Tanner pulls back, looking over at him with narrowed eyes. “I meant it as a fact. You were given a lot. You may not like it, but it made you special. It put you in a position to do something.” 

Tyler feels his throat go dry. He wants to protest, and reflexive words of denial rise to the tip of his tongue. But how can he argue that when he’s lying in a bed next to Tanner, naked and unafraid of Tanner’s closeness, taking joy in his presence by instinct, when Tanner had to fight every shred of himself to be here in this same place. How can he argue, when he was given what Wayne had to bargain for, when he takes painlessly the love Jeff suffered for, when he moves freely with a protection his parents died for. 

Here he is, in the dark. Staring down terror, but staring down choices. What does he want this world to look like? And how is he supposed to convince anyone to listen? 

Tanner squeezes his hand. The warmth is a balm. Tyler closes his eyes. His father supported that system that took everything away from Tanner, and yet here he is, his hand holding Tyler’s. The warmth is a miracle. 

Tyler is still afraid, but he is also loved. Tyler has been loved – and for that, he feels a gratitude so deep it overwhelms everything else. They all have grounds to rip each other apart. Tanner more than anyone, maybe, Tyler thinks, squeezing his hand back. But instead, Tanner is lying next to him, putting himself through hell to put himself back together and loving Tyler and letting Tyler love him. 

When Tyler thought about the path forward as leading to happiness, all roads seemed grim and hazy. But what if that’s the wrong question. Tyler shifts again. Awake now to every sound of the night around them, to all the gradations of gray in the unlit room, to every rough twist in the pattern of Tanner’s grip. And Tyler is awake with the knowledge that he is not looking for happiness – 

He’s looking for work. 

The easy thing to do would be to hand the memory card off to Dean, to let him sweep the connection between himself and McCarthy under the rug, to continue to go along with things. But Dean himself showed Tyler that taking action is both hard and necessary. 

His parents gave him that card for a reason. The card is a living memory of what was. If he shares it as widely and publically as possible, he could help so many people, and he could convince so many people to _listen._

And now that he’s asking instead for a purpose, and the way forward is lit by a thousand ideas. Out loud, he says, “There’s so much to do.” Already his thoughts are full – water for the cities, jobs for those without, support to the towns up north, food out west, stable communications, better aid for Players newly at loose ends, wages to the army – and those are just the first, hot rush of ideas. “I couldn’t do it all.” 

“You wouldn’t have to do it all,” Tanner says, moving closer to him. “You just have to try. Try to do what you can to make things better.” His hand, soft and careful, touches Tyler’s face. 

Nothing could be so bad if everyone had this warmth. And maybe this is the only way they can move forward – to go through. To find compassion and forgiveness above all else. 

Tyler can work to make a place that is safe for Tanner. For people like Tanner. And for everyone. He can take the choices he was given and the opportunities, and do his best to put them in reach of everyone. And he can turn the truth held in that memory card over not to a single ally, but to as many people as possible. 

Maybe he can show as many people as possible how to keep their eyes ahead, to turn to the future. Maybe he can build something new. 

Tyler sits up. He takes his hand back from Tanner. He flips on the lamp on the bedside table, and reaches for the pad and pen stashed there. 

Tanner blinks at the sudden light. “What are you doing?” 

It’s time to get up. It’s time to get on his feet and rise. It’s time to do the work. 

“I’m writing a speech,” Tyler says. He uncaps his pen, studies the blank page in front of him, and bends to his task. “A campaign speech.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, you guys. We did it.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this story. Even when I was sweating blood, I loved writing it for you. It would mean the world to me if you let me know what you did (or even didn’t) like about it. A ridiculous amount of people helped me with this. Thank you to everyone who who let me ask weird questions, who edited, listened, consoled, and fed me while I was working on this. Thank you to my twitter list for putting up with my obsessive #TDYH updates. Thank you to everyone who supported this story even after they drifted out of hockey fandom — sorry it took so long. Thank you to especially to everyone who read drafts of this story — you know who you are. Thank you so, so much. 
> 
> This story is dedicated to Kelsey, who asked for “a short one-shot of Tyler, Jeff, and Mike making pie at the Lake of the Woods”. And to Zoe, who asked for my very best.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Moment's Respite](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414830) by [camshaft22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/camshaft22/pseuds/camshaft22)




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